Season Five

by EnlightenedSkye

Picking up six months after Terra Prime, the Enterprise attempts to hold the Coalition together while keeping an eye on the growing Romulan threat. Trip takes his own command and the war begins mid-season. [July 2155 to January 2157. 25 episodes. Fully episodic, so each chapter is a stand-alone story. ATP, Troshi, Malcolm/OC, P/C. Rated T throughout. Complete, S6 and S7 complete]

22. Episode 22: A Wind in the Door

A/N: Welcome back! Thanks for the comments and support. Still don't own anything you recognize; no profit is made. We manage to tease a couple different season six plotlines here, most notably the meteoric rise of Shran, a pre- Dominion War Bajor arc, and a Phlox family reunion inspired by the ENT pocket novel Live by the Code.

The cold open is inspired by the fundamental differences between the NX-01 and the NCC-1701D. Laura is referring to the Parallax colony on Shiralea VI simulated in TNG 5x20 Cost of Living, which honestly felt like a hallucination in itself. Slight references to Michael's speech in DSC 1x15 Will You Take My Hand. Alira's backstory arc wraps up today.

Title is borrowed from one of my favorite books as a child, by Madeleine L'Engle. The main theme is the idea of evil being all around us and within us, but love being our saving grace above all. It's also indicative of new directions in life.

Next time: It's a T'Pol episode, folks! We're expanding on ENT 2x07 The Seventh (an excellent ATP episode, if I may say) and her career in the Ministry of Security.

Season Five

Episode Twenty-Two: A Wind in the Door

Mere seconds after he was relieved on the bridge, Malcolm high-tailed it down to the turbolift, head trained towards the deck plating.

The corridors were bustling with crewmen either coming on or going off, a state of controlled chaos characteristic of a shift change. He passed a few members of his armory team, but they graciously avoided interacting with him, as they could tell from his furrowed brow and tense posture that he was a man on a mission.

As he passed into the engineering non-comm block, he began to hear the whisper of conversation and the roar of laughter from the opposite side of a bulkhead. This wasn't an usual occurrence for Anna's brigade; of all the departments on Enterprise, they were the largest, the most tight-knit, and the most irreverent. They also got into the most trouble, which was clearly reflected in the number of them on report at any given time.

He tended not to venture this far below decks unless he had to; the non-comms tended to stop carousing whenever he walked by, button themselves up and snap to attention, as though they were prepared for him to hand down a punishment from on high at any moment. Now that T'Pol's movements were greatly limited to the captain's mess, the bridge, and her quarters, he was the reigning protocol fiend, and many treated him as such, a state of affairs which suited his introverted nature quite nicely.

He digressed. This evening, even though his social battery was fairly drained from fielding staff complaints and putting out fires, he would need to force himself to interact with his peers a little bit longer. Already, he wasn't looking forward to it.

Counting silently in his head, he passed three hatches until finally arriving at the one he was searching for, pausing to take in a deep breath. He'd been in this situation a hundred times before, in his personal and professional life, and knew exactly what was going to happen the moment he knocked on that door. Though he knew it was going to sting, he did it anyway.

Immediately, the room within fell silent.

There was a pause, then the hatch opened, revealing none other than Crewman Kelly.

She wore a black apron over her civvies and nitrile gloves up to her wrist, which seemed to be stained with all means of dye, red and silver and chocolate brown, a testament to how she'd been spending her day off, as she did all the rest of them. Quiet music was playing within, and as the interior recycled air reached him, he detected something sharp and chemical, as well as something sweet, as though she was deliberately burning as many contraband candles as possible to get rid of the smell ahead of her roommate returning home.

While the Enterprise had a chef and a quartermaster, they lacked a counselor, educator, or a hairdresser, the absence of the latter was keenly felt by all of them, and for which Janelle was eager to fill in the blanks.

It became kind of a side hustle for her; she'd made her way through the warp technician training program at STC working at a salon, and while she was no longer licensed, no one seemed to mind. Really, she did a fantastic job, save for one unfortunate incident that turned poor Crewman Marceline's hair neon green.

She looked exhausted, but afforded him a courteous smile, leaning into the doorframe by her elbow and giving him the onceover. He could tell she was waiting for him to extend the olive branch, to come out and say what he wanted, because she sure as hell wasn't going to do it for him.

Malcolm attempted to reproduce an easygoing smile, which came out somewhat forced. "Can you fit me in, Crewman?"

"Of course, sir." Janelle stepped back to usher him inside, and he was only too willing to comply.

The first person he saw was Lieutenant Commander Hess, sitting in her desk chair, swiveling back and forth as she reviewed her personal correspondence. She nodded towards him as he entered, but otherwise said nothing, averting her gaze back towards what was presumably a lengthy letter from her partner serving aboard the Columbia.

Seeing as they were both off duty, Malcolm wasn't above a little teasing. He gestured towards her pixie cut, which was slicked back and covered with goopy red dye, then said: "You see, I knew it wasn't natural."

"That's the difference between you and me," she replied cryptically. "I'm not trying to fool anyone."

"Whoever said I was trying to-"

"You're not the low maintenance, battle hardened officer most think you are," Anna interrupted, finally setting aside her PADD. "Besides myself, you're probably Janelle's most frequent customer."

His reply was swiftly cut off by a chair being pushed in his direction, one which he quickly surmised had been stolen from the mess hall. He sat, and she draped the cape over his shoulders, turning him around to face the window.

Immediately, Malcolm came face to face with Lieutenant Kov, who was seated on a stepstool perhaps a half meter off the ground, his kneecaps practically resting in his ears. A couple dozen foils were threaded through his severe Vulcan hairstyle, and the sight was momentarily so amusing that he had to stifle a laugh.

"I'm finally going to do it," he declared with an impressive amount of mettle. "Today's the day I put the past behind me."

"We're calling his new style the Captain Tucker." Janelle shed her gloves and ruffled her fingers experimentally through his hair.

"And we're adding a few caramel highlights in for good measure."

"Anna seems to believe it will suit me," Kov said, his remark punctuated by his own brand of understated, crooked smile. "She says that I'm an autumn."

This time, he couldn't control his amusement, though he tried his hardest. Malcolm jabbed a finger in his direction, then up towards the woman holding the clippers. "You'd better do right by this man."

"I plan to, I've only been trying to persuade him for months to do something different. Maybe next time, I'll be able to convince the Captain…"

"I wouldn't hold out hope." If anything, T'Pol was a creature of habit. Having served with her for the past five years, Malcolm knew her routine well, from when she went for her daily run, to the requisite four cups of tea she had per day (two chamomile, one mint, and one iced, at the Commodore's insistence), to how she preferred the morning senior staff briefings to be structured. He wouldn't go as far as to say they were friends, but he certainly trusted her and confided in her when he had the chance, and for two people who used to not even be able to hold a conversation, that was well and good enough.

"A girl can dream, can't she?" She placed her thumb and two fingers on her neck, and he obliged, looking down towards the deck plating as she set to her work.

He nodded, a completely unconscious reaction that was met with gentle chastisement and a reminder to sit still. "As I was saying, Ms. Hess, a Starfleet officer must always look their best, and this is no exception. I don't know if you heard, but I'm getting promoted tomorrow."

"Only several times a day for the past week," Anna said with a twinge of irritation. "You know, maybe you should be more concerned about preparing for these negotiations. We don't want another Rigel V, after all."

"Six different delegations on one ship, and an unfamiliar one at that, hovering over a planet for which two of the present species fought a war over," Kov mused, thumbing through a paperback book he found on Janelle's bunk.

"I'm aware of the risks, and I can assure you that no one needs to worry. Ensign Taxa has things very well in hand." He paused, dropping his head to one shoulder. "What's the worst that could happen?"

Anna startled and swiveled all the way around in her chair, a reaction he could hear but not see in his present position. Even Kov's eyes widened, and he shook his head slowly from side to side, as though he pitied him for what he was about to go through.

"Don't you dare. That's one of the phrases that's banned in engineering, along with keep your shirt on, self-sealing stem bolt, and anything to do with country music. You're just inviting chaos at this point."

"I know we've already had our fair share of discord around here-"

"We're the unluckiest ship in the fleet," Kov corrected him. "I've taken the liberty of speaking with several of my counterparts on the other NXes. The Enterprise is notorious. It's always something new with them every week, they say."

"And the Maelstrom isn't held in the same regard?" Now that he thought about it, they had their own share of misadventures, from Kandar to escaping from what was colloquially called the Romulan fortress of doom to running afoul of the Section's torpedo smuggling ring. Really, Trip's unique ability to direct them towards calamity was impressive.

"They're getting up there," Anna promised, watching as Janelle made quick work of the top of his head. "Next probably is the Phoenix, what with their near death experience trying to make first contact with the Chelons, then the Columbia, for all the trouble they caused on Bajor."

"I haven't heard about that!"

"Then you're talking to the wrong people," Janelle teased, swiveling him around to face the interior of the room and dropping her clippers back into her pocket. "All done."

He accepted the hand mirror she passed to him and stood, stooping slightly to allow her to remove the cape from his shoulders. Turning this way and that, he made a show of mockingly admiring his reflection, rubbing it in for Anna and Kov, who were likely to be a captive audience for at least another hour.

"It looks exactly the same," Anna asserted.

"That's where you're wrong. I am the paragon of high standards, the epitome of adherence to the uniform and conduct code-"

"Right, and I'm the Queen of England," she interrupted, momentarily forcing a different accent over her own. He scoffed, and she didn't balk for a second.

The last she saw of him was an overly exaggerated scowl and the cursory shake of a finger, then he was gone, out the door and into the corridor.

Most likely to ruin someone else's evening, Anna thought, but smiled all the same.

---

Maelstrom Captain's Log, September 2nd, 2156: The fleet as well as delegations from five other alliance worlds have returned to Paan Mokar to sign the charter of the wartime Coalition of Planets. It's less of a treaty as it is a promise to back one another up in battle without question, but you didn't hear that from me.

---

"Are you going to be okay?"

"Of course."

"Are you sure?"

"Hoshi," Trip admonished, slowly standing from the end of their bed with the utmost care. He quickly adopted a wide stance, arms straightened out at an angle, fists tightened and shoulders thrown back, maintaining the posture as if his life depended on it. "As long as they don't ask me to pick anything up off the ground, or walk too fast, or shake hands…"

There was a veritable mountain of PADDs on his desk; carefully, she gathered them in her arms and staggered towards the door, trying her best not to trip over her own two feet in the process. "Sounds like you're not okay to me."

"I'm fine," he insisted, then as if to prove a point, swept past her and beat her to the hatch. It took a couple of seconds of experimentation, of leaning all the way back and attempting to flex his elbow, before Trip finally gave in and smiled sheepishly. "Would you mind?"

She huffed incredulously and hit the controls with her forehead; a second later, they were both ambling down the hall, a little awkward and stilted, but moving nonetheless. Trip tried his best to look casual, nodding briskly at every crewman they passed, but it was plain to see that he was in pain.

"I could've told you all that challenging Dr. Yuris to a lifting competition would end badly."

"You did, we just ignored you."

"He's a Vulcan, Trip, and he's at least three times stronger than any human on a bad day. You, Travis, and Kelby never stood a chance." Though she'd been sympathetic to his plight last night, massaging his biceps and attempting not to point out the obvious, she wasn't feeling quite so charitable at the moment.

"If you think about it, we were pretty close."

"You weren't. Even with your top weights combined, he still smoked you guys." They reached the lift and she hit the button with her knee, swiveling around to face the corridor as they stepped inside.

Trip sighed wearily. "You should have seen him treating us afterwards. I never knew a Vulcan to be so smug."

"Sure you haven't," she teased, and he grinned back knowingly.

"I knew I should've pulled Ethan in instead of Kelby. That man thinks about everything like a physics equation. He might've given us the edge we need."

"Doubtful, Novakovich is a string bean. Alira's the one you want."

"You think?"

"Please!" She meant to make a vague, noncommittal gesture, and almost wound up dropping a dozen PADDs in the process. Her normally helpful and generous boyfriend could only afford her an apologetic glance, and she frowned, rolling her eyes. While her friend indulged in the simple pleasures of life to the highest extent, she also trained harder than any MACO, and the few times they'd attempted to work out together, Hoshi had been reduced to wobbly knees and a puddle of perspiration. "You weren't there the night she threw Sergeant Kemper across the room during self defense class."

"No, but I heard about it. The man's pride definitely took a hit." The doors of the lift opened, and they surged forward down the corridor towards the transporter pad, having to duck and weave to avoid the oncoming crewmen on their way to alpha shift.

Hoshi couldn't help it; she laughed, shifting the weight of her bounty into the opposite hand. "Let it wither a little. It was pretty funny."

This time, she wasn't about to do his bidding, and Trip had to stand on his toes to access the controls without bending his elbows. He set the timer, then joined her on the platform, asking: "What should I be doing at this meeting?"

"Honestly, just sit there and look pretty. If I were you, I'd even-"

Her advice was drowned out by the whoosh and swirl of the transporter, as their molecules were disassembled on the Maelstrom and hastily thrown back together on the Vulcan flagship Varan hanging just off their port bow. Trip hesitated, shaking off the characteristic feeling of electricity in his extremities, then stepped down onto the deck plating, looking all around.

Everything was gray and black and red, the colors of dirt, and every hatch and fixture was circular, with triangular curves inlaid into the metal in a vague resemblance to the IDIC. He wasn't sure what he expected, but it very much confirmed in his mind that the Vulcans truly had little imagination.

Hoshi grimaced; though he knew she'd gotten better about it over the years, he knew she hated the transporter, and it was written all over her face. "As I was saying, I'd keep as low of a profile as possible. Let the ambassadors do the talking. We're just here for decoration."

"Then why are we here at all?"

She stopped in her tracks, furtively glanced this way and that, then leaned in to whisper: "Julia thinks it's all posturing. The other delegates sent one ship each, but Admiral Gardner sent four."

That didn't surprise him; their fleet commander was primarily concerned with showing their strength at the moment, though among allies, that scarcely mattered. Jon had complained at length about it, how he was always sticking his nose where he doesn't belong, how he was playing a horrendous game with human lives without knowing what it was really like to be in the trenches, but the fact remained: he was in control, and they needed to obey his wishes.

"Did I hear Ethan right earlier? Are the Coridanites really here?"

"They sure are. They're probably going to be our only source of dilithium moving forward, so they're here to negotiate extra protection." The loss of Solnara, both strategically and morally, was keenly felt across the fleet.

"Without actually contributing to the fight."

"Naturally. They're not stupid, Trip." She had to step to one side to avoid running headlong into a Vulcan Sub-Commander, who was plowing his way down the corridor like a battering ram. "The Denobulans are here as well just to drive home the fact that they'll support us in trade, but not on the battlefield."

"To rub salt into the wound, you mean." He could only imagine how his tactical officer was taking the news.

"You said it, not me. The Rigelians are still trying to avoid a civil war between the Jelna and the Zami, and the Ktarians-"

"They made a good decision not to show their faces around here. I'd sure like to give them what for." He glanced down towards his stiffened arms, and silently added, eventually. Their experience chasing down the alternate reality version of his best friend's girlfriend in an attempt to prevent her from destroying Andoria had been traumatic to say the least.

Hoshi shifted slightly to nudge him with her shoulder. Lowering her voice, she whispered: "You're not alone. It's critical that we make some sort of agreement this week. You've heard the same whisperings over subspace that I did."

"We're all counting on you, Lieutenant," he said earnestly, and she heaved a massive sigh, already not looking forward to her role as official parliamentarian for the proceedings, though she'd volunteered months ahead of time. "If anyone can prevent Shran and Soval from killing each other, it's definitely you."

They passed a viewport and a trio of MACOs, who nodded at them curtly. Over their shoulders, the great sphere of their agreed-upon meeting place rose below them, cold, barren, and not the least bit welcoming. "Remember, it's Weytahn if you're speaking with an Andorian, and Paan Mokar if you're talking to a Vulcan. Prime Minister Samuels will be referring to it by its scientific designation so it doesn't look like we're picking sides."

"I thought the High Command officially ceded control of the planet years ago, after Jon negotiated that cease fire."

"They did, but they're still touchy about it, according to Yuris."

"I suppose he'd know." As a matter of fact, he'd spent over a year under the employ of Minister T'Pau, identifying the extent of the hybrid plot and exposing sleeper agents where he could. "I'll try my best to tow the line like a good captain."

"Glad to hear it. You do have the tendency to put your foot in it."

"Alright, alright." He almost raised a hand in consternation, but stopped when a ripple of pain shot up to his shoulder. They finally reached their destination and stepped over the first threshold into a small antechamber before the next hatch. Once he was sure they were alone, he asked, "Exactly what do you mean by that?"

She turned to him, raising her eyebrows and speaking quietly, deliberately. "The Xyrillians?"

"Okay, I see how it is." Her eyes immediately lit up, enough for him to tell that she'd been kidding. "For your information, I put my hand in it, not my foot."

"Does that make it any better?"

"Nope, considering it's been five years and people won't shut up about it." He reached back to hold the hatch closed, then bent his head towards her. "Could I get one for good luck?"

She nodded and stood on her toes, and when she kissed him, he could feel her smiling against his mouth.

A second later, they swept into the grand wardroom of the Varan, anchored by a large table running the length of the chamber. Already, it was cluttered with PADDs and drinking glasses and various accoutrements, not limited to dozens of spare UTs that were heaped up at both ends. A majority of the attendees wore them clipped to their lapels, and he dearly hoped for Hoshi's sake they wouldn't experience as many malfunctions as they did the last time they gathered like this.

He could see Jon and T'Pol talking to the Coridanite ambassador and Chancellor Kalev; the former wore a spider-like metal cage over his face, obscuring his features and lending a rough, gravelly tone to his voice. The latter sported a larger version over the bodice of her robe, snatching her in and preserving her posture as ramrod straight. Trip assumed it had some sort of religious or ceremonial significance, but at the moment, couldn't bring himself to ask.

There were more important matters at hand.

Malcolm stood off to one side, spit and polished in his dress uniform, studying something on his PADD so intently that he didn't notice Trip approaching until it was almost too late. Fortunately, he looked up at the last second, moving to shake his hand, but finding himself being drawn into a tight hug.

"Happy birthday, old man!" Trip exclaimed, thumping him on the back with enthusiasm.

"I'm only four years older than-"

"Geez, we oughta just get you a walker and a cane already. What do you think, Lieutenant?"

Hoshi afforded him a democratic smile. "I think you clean up nice."

"Thank you!" He turned his head to Trip and lowered his voice steeply. "That's a fine way to address someone who's getting promoted today, sir."

"How could I forget?" Trip curled an arm around his shoulder and hid his grimace, relishing the opportunity to slip into their old routine. He could hide it behind teasing and poking fun, but the truth was, he'd missed his best friend. "What do you say about stopping by tonight for a beer?"

It would be the first chance they had to observe their weekly ritual in person for months. Trip could tell he was tempted. "Maybe."

"Maybe? What the hell do you mean maybe?"

"Captain, I'm sure he's got much more attractive options on the table right now." One of Hoshi's eyebrows twitched upwards, and Malcolm suspected she knew something he didn't.

He shrugged, then cut a glance down the side of the table, seemingly locking eyes with an unseen adversary. Muttering some excuse, he skittered away, and Trip turned just in time to see the Tellarite contingent on a collision course.

There was simply no time to prepare. Beside him, Hoshi stiffened and began to plot her escape, but the second she locked eyes with him and saw his fraught, desperate expression, she thought better of it.

"Mr. Tucker!" Ambassador Gral roared, baring his teeth and greeting him with a baleful grin. Trip met his overture of a handshake halfway, squeezing tightly and not daring to look away for a second.

They remained there for an uncomfortable amount of time, staring each other down, silently daring the other one to act first. Finally, Hoshi cleared her throat, and Trip pulled away, affecting a disinterested expression.

"Ambassador Gral, Ambassador Kell. Allow me to welcome you to-"

"You're late," Kell interrupted, jabbing a wrinkled finger into his chest. She was virtually indistinguishable from her counterpart, save for broad, pointed ears and two tusks that curved upwards from the sides of her mouth. Trip vaguely remembered that she was the niece of the reigning king, and revered as one of their best orators, but as for now, she was just a delegate.

A delegate who had deliberately assisted in the acquisition of materials for the nuclear weapons they would soon have in their armory.

"I was trying to avoid looking at your ugly mugs for as long as I could," Trip retorted, knowing full well he needed to argue like a Tellarite in order to gain their respect. He inwardly winced that he was speaking to a lady in that way, but remained resolute.

"The Maelstrom's got an important job to do during these negotiations, unlike you. We're offering translation services, security…"

"And reading material, apparently." Gral seized a PADD from the top of the pile Hoshi was carrying and made a big show of turning on the screen and squinting into it. "What's your plan, bore us to death?"

"They're handbooks on parliamentary procedure. Everyone's got to speak one at a time. I for one don't want to hear your pig squeal of a voice more often than I have to."

Damn. Even Trip had to admit that was cold. The two ambassadors froze in place, eyes wide, for so long that he was afraid they'd gone too far and already caused a diplomatic incident, but then they began to laugh, loud and raucous, drawing the attention of everyone in the near vicinity.

Kell reached out and clapped a hand on Hoshi's shoulder. "I like this one, Mr. Tucker! Now tell me, I'm not so sure we've met…"

At that moment Admiral Gardner swept by them, and Trip was sorely tempted to follow him, to drum up a conversation and pretend like they were old pals, but he was trapped. His eyes followed him all the way to the window, where the Captain and the Commodore both stood at attention.

Nathan Samuels, the Prime Minister of United Earth, was regaling them with an amusing anecdote about the last meeting of the council, but that didn't mean they were listening. His politician mask of smarm and charisma was firmly in place, and Jonathan felt as though he would be remiss if he didn't point it out.

Does this guy ever quit?

His questions reached her through their bond, and she disguised her reaction behind a raised eyebrow and decorous nod of her head. From my analysis of how he had interacted with the other delegates over the past hour, I do not believe he does. Say what you want, ashayam, but he excels at his job.

It feels fake. He's not genuine at all.

He is a politician. He doesn't need to be genuine as long as he creates the illusion that he is.

Is that how Soval's remained in power all these years?

Ambassador Soval thrives on discord and direct challenges to his intellect. To borrow an idiom, I might say that like Mr. Samuels, he rarely takes his eye off the prize. I might even go as far as to say…

"I hope I'm not interrupting," the Admiral said, joining their circle. From somewhere in the room, he could feel someone's eyes on him, and flexed his shoulders, hoping to create the illusion that this was a casual conversation. Nathan's crestfallen expression, however, did well to dispel any doubts as to the true nature of his visit. Slowly, he leaned forward until he was sure that the only people in the room that could hear him were his companions. "We've just received word from the Phoenix and the Tempest. Deneva Prime has been lost."

T'Pol scarcely reacted, though her nostrils flared minutely, her fingers sliding through the condensation on the glass of water she'd been holding. They'd all been waiting with baited breath for the past twelve hours as a battle raged on; if Gardner had his way, the entire fleet would be there for the signing of the charter, but they couldn't deny the increased frequency of telepresence attacks that their presence was needed elsewhere.

Those occurrences, apparently, had been indicative of another future, tragic loss.

"How many?" Jonathan asked.

"Fifty thousand. Our mining operation in the Kappa Fornacis asteroid belt has been disrupted. Any duranium the fleet needs is going to have to come from Pluto Depot for the time being."

"We'll divert as many patrols as we need. As soon as we're done here, the Enterprise will-"

"Not so fast, Commodore," Gardner interjected. "There's also whisperings that the Romulans have set their eyes on a planet to serve as a staging ground for an attack on Sol."

Then why are two-thirds of our NX classes here? To make you look good? Jonathan demanded silently, and T'Pol swiftly looked away.

"It's at a place called Galorndon Core. We've got a station station there, but-"

"Has it been evacuated?" This time, T'Pol wasn't so concerned about interrupting a superior officer.

"Not yet. They're the ones feeding us this information. Without them, we wouldn't know very much." Gardner and Samuels exchanged a smile, to keep up the appearance that they were having an ordinary conversation more than anything, then he concluded: "That's where you'll be going right after this. Bring the Maelstrom and the Columbia with you, and send Cochrane back out to the patrol."

"Sir, if you want to know what I think-"

"I didn't ask, Commodore," the Admiral asserted, swiftly ending the conversation.

T'Pol felt a burning rage spring up and take hold of her bondmate, crashing over her in waves. She inhaled sharply, then exhaled slowly, trying her best to maintain her neutral expression.

He trusts you still, I am sure of it.

If he really trusts me, he should let me command this fleet. We're not talking about numbers and the bottom line here, T'Pol, we're talking about real people. He should at least pretend to value my opinion.

She mulled over this, then took a slow sip of water, glancing outside the viewport to the desolate surface of Paan Mokar fall below. It spoke of long-ago devastation, of a war of ego and territorial zeal, one not so devastating as this one, but similar nonetheless. When she turned her head, the Admiral was looking directly at her, and she met his challenge, determined to give nothing away. "We will inform the affected parties in due time."

"Glad to hear it. Now, about our plan of attack for these negotiations-"

From across the room, Ensign Taxa had her eyes trained on the Prime Minister, watching his every move, studying intently everyone who dared to get within a meter of him. While she was no longer explicitly in charge of the Commodore's safety, she was loath to have anything remotely similar to Rigel V happen ever again, and so she remained vigilant, watching the four of them as though her life depended on it.

At that moment, the Coridanite ambassador and chancellor passed behind him, depositing what appeared to be a small black box on the table behind them. She'd seen them open it before, and had even received one upon entry, a small, silvery medallion conveying their gratitude at being hosted at this event. Kalev had gone to great lengths to make sure she understood it was a great honor, and that it had been forged with only the finest metals in the polar reaches of their planet, but she'd remaining suspicious all the same, and before she could stop herself, she was moving with wide, open strides towards her target.

She was intercepted halfway there; really, she should have expected they would track her down eventually, but nothing could have prepared her for the moment she stood face to face with the Supreme Commander of the Denobulan Infantry, her father's second wife, the woman who had the power to prevent her mother's death but had decided not to prevent, avenge, or investigate it in any way.

General Vesena.

The lady was accompanied by Ambassador Lexora, whose security she'd supervised at many negotiations just like this one, and Chancellor Zanthras, the head of the Supreme Council. The smiles plastered on their faces were identical, but their eyes were empty and soulless, betraying their true impressions at seeing her for the first time in over a year.

"Ensign Taxa," Vesena began, sizing her up from the heels of her boots to the top of her head. She wanted to wither under her gaze, but forced herself to remain steadfast. "What a pleasure it is to see you again."

"The pleasure is all mine," she assured her, knowing that to be a lie. As far as she could remember, they hadn't been close. Vesena never cared for Taxa's other children. Even her own mother, who tended to get along with anyone and everyone, argued with her relentlessly in a series of disagreements that worsened over the years. When her father died, she didn't even attempt to make it to his Rite of Absolution ceremony, effectively sealing her fate as her most disliked family member.

And now that they were face to face once again, she was reminded that the feeling was very much mutual.

"How are you enjoying Starfleet?" Lexora, at least, was attempting to be friendly.

"Just fine. They do things quite differently around here, but I've adjusted."

"I hear you've even made a few friends." The insinuation in Zanthras's voice couldn't be ignored.

"Don't believe everything you hear, sir," she teased. "How are things back home? Tell me, General, have you forgiven that third husband of yours yet?"

"Groznik has only apologized three times. He's got at least another six months." According to family gossip, that was what she'd said years ago. Alira was starting to think she had no interest in reconciling after all; divorce was rare on Denobula because everyone was free to take as many lovers as they wanted, but in their case, she wouldn't be surprised if there was an exception.

"How are you feeling?" Lexora interjected out of the blue, shaking her from her reverie. This time, she startled, her mind immediately returning to that time and that place where she almost lost control entirely.

She'd thrown her PADD against the wall, causing it to shatter into a thousand pieces, and cried for what felt like days until she had no tears remaining. She'd retracted from everyone around her and wallowed in her own sadness, screamed at her Captain and begged for forgiveness. Among the mess of her grief, she'd found the traction she needed to recover, to understand the loss and compartmentalize what she was feeling and move forward. It had been painful, but ultimately made her stronger, forging a new resolve in the blinding hellfire that had consumed Kandar and removed it from existence altogether.

"Just fine. Better by the day," she replied, and meant it.

"I'm very happy to hear that." The Ambassador reached out to her and curled her palm around her cheek, her hand hovering a fraction of a centimeter over her skin. It was a familiar, comforting gesture, and she fleetingly remembered coming home one day from school in tears, only for her mother to corner her in the foyer and attempt to soothe her however she could. Reflexively, she looked into her eyes, and realized she wasn't seeking to convey warmth.

She was looking for answers.

At that moment, the Andorian contingent entered the wardroom, pushing past them and making a beeline for the Vulcan delegates. Captain Namara jostled Zanthras on the way, and he reacted as though he'd been stung, stumbling forward and nearly causing the four of them to fall into a pile.

Minister T'Pau could hear them before she saw them. Kuvak's fist clenched into his side, a gesture that only lasted a fraction of a second, but was predictive of the nature of their company nonetheless. Soval reacted first, assuming a protective stance in front of her and folding his arms into the sleeves of his voluminous robe, effectively cutting off Shran's path and forcing him to reevaluate his approach.

His antennae swiveled around and curled inward. Unfortunately for them, Shran didn't even attempt to reign in his anger, coming to within a few centimeters of the ambassador and jabbing an accusatory finger into his chest. "Is there any particular reason why you've got a courier ship hanging in low orbit?"

"They're on a routine reconnaissance mission. Their navigational sensors malfunctioned, and we gave them clearance to return to a heavily patrolled area while they made the necessary corrections," Soval explained, his tone perfectly measured and even, something that seemed to infuriate their guests.

"This is in violation of our treaty! You signed an agreement to stay more than one hundred thousand kilometers from Weytahn, and you must honor it or suffer the consequences!" Chancellor Sindas asserted, shaking his fist at them. He took a step closer, moving around Soval and stepping up to her, attempting to intimidate her by his sheer size and imposition.

She didn't react, but she did take a moment to study his face, his mannerisms, the way that vein in his neck pulsated with rage. Having spent endless hours over video conference haggling over the finer details of the charter with him and his staff, T'Pau wondered just how he managed to get through his days flying off the handle about positively everything. Out of the corner of her eye, she detected Captain T'Pol approaching, and not for the first time, thanked Surak for her existence.

"This latest incursion is a clear and present attempt at surveillance," General Karashi ground out, glowering at them.

Namara seemed to be in perfect agreement. "Even after the Commodore chose to defend our side at P'Jem, you insist on playing this dangerous game. One more action on your part, and we will be forced to-"

"The decision to reveal the Vulcan listening post under the monastery had nothing to do with choosing sides." T'Pol was at her side in a second, stepping up to rub shoulders with Soval. Even after all of her time with the human crew, she was still very much Vulcan, something no amount of struggle or strife could ever take away.

"Are you telling me it had something to do with the goodness of Archer's heart?" Shran's question was laden with double meaning and oddly patronizing.

She shook her head. "It was purely strategic, as is our alliance with Andoria now. If we didn't need you, I can assure you we wouldn't choose to associate with you even in passing."

Her remark seemed to alternately catalyze or enrage the other delegation, and soon they were all shouting at them, creating a patchwork of voices that the UT couldn't even begin to decipher.

Grimacing slightly and saying a silent prayer of gratitude to the powers that be that she wasn't involved in that mess, Captain Hernandez sidestepped Shran and approached the negotiating table, her focus singular.

Erika had spent the past few minutes locked in a completely unwarranted discussion about strategic trade with the Coridanite ambassador; no matter how many times she insisted that he was better off talking to Al-Shahrani or Leota, who had both volunteered their vessels to run large-scale freight to the front lines, he just kept going on and on, until by the time she was able to break free of him, she was ready to rip her hair out.

She caught a glimpse of the back of her girlfriend's head from across the room, and uncontrollably, she felt her stomach flip-flip and flood with butterflies. Laura scarcely reacted as she joined her at the table, nodding and offering her a cordial professional greeting, but from the way she was smiling at her PADD, she could tell that she was similarly excited to see her.

Work had kept them apart for months; what had began as a fling following a planned rendezvous on Vulcan had grown into something beautiful. Neither of them had been in a relationship like this before, and while daily letters and conversations over subspace could only do so much, it did wonders to maintain their interest until they were reunited once again.

Got plans for tonight? The message reached Laura's PADD a second later, and she half-heartedly glanced in her direction, before lowering it to the table and covering it with her hand.

Pretty sure the Commodore's having all the Captains over for dinner. She paused, tapping her fingernails onto the table. Unless you mean after.

Of course I mean after. We'll say you're helping me with a staffing issue. I've got a bottle of shiraz burning a hole in my cabinet, and a dozen new records from our last rendezvous with the ECS.

Laura couldn't help but roll her eyes. Though it was a nearly dead media, Erika still held a unique passion for vinyl, which was evidenced by the shelves and shelves of records in her quarters. Her turntable, a hand-me-down from her mother, had been repaired a hundred times over, and it wasn't unusual to find her dancing and singing quietly to herself as she set about her nightly routine.

One that she suspected she would share tonight.

I'll admit, you've captured my interest.

No one could ever say that I don't know how to show a lady a good time. Under the table, Erika's hand was moving closer to hers, which was resting lightly on her knee. When they made contact, a jolt of electricity shot up Laura's arm, and she glanced around the room, confirming that no one seemed the wiser. Slowly, she teased her fingers with her own, drawing lazy circles in her palm, until she realized that her heart was beating uncomfortably fast.

It didn't make sense. It defied all logic, but she couldn't deny it.

"Nice of you two to make it!" The Commodore's voice shocked them both out of their clandestine moment, and they both shot out of their chairs, turning to face him.

"Are we getting started anytime soon?" Erika sounded like she was complaining, but she knew she was kidding, and Jonathan seemed to take it in stride.

He cut a glance towards the head out the table, where Samuels and Gardner were setting up, then confirmed, "Hopefully any moment now."

"Thank God. Let's get this show on the road."

The second Archer turned to join the rest of their contingent, he cut them both a knowing look, one which couldn't be missed. Laura restrained a groan of frustration; though she was sure their secret was safe with him, she hated giving him any ammunition he could use to tease them. They'd been friends for years, and though this was a new development, Jonathan never passed up an opportunity as good as this one.

Erika shrugged and took her seat once again, settling in for what was likely to be a few hours of very heated debate intermixed with screaming. Lieutenant Sato, their appointed parliamentarian, already looked exhausted, and she didn't blame her.

From somewhere overhead, a tone sounded, and the delegated began to take their places at the table. The Prime Minister waited for them in silence, his smile growing wider by the minute, then threw his arms out wide. "I would like to thank all of you for sending delegates for what I'm sure will be a very fruitful final round of negotiations. By this time tomorrow, we will be signing the final draft of the charter for the Coalition of Planets."

And only a year and a half later than planned, Laura mused, though she knew the war had something to do with that.

"I wish we were meeting under better circumstances, but with the help of everyone in this room, we will build a strong network of support and mutual collaboration that will allow us to weather the storm." He inhaled slowly, bracing his hands on the edge of the table and leaning over it. In that moment, Laura felt the weight of humanity upon them all. "Now, let's make some history."

---

"The Imperial Guard will not stand for this!"

"I will remind the gentleman from the Andorian delegation that the Ambassador still has the floor. Sixty seconds remaining," Hoshi said with an impressive amount of nonchalance, given the fact that her expression betrayed that she was ready to pull her hair out.

"Thank you, Lieutenant. As I was saying on the issue of prioritizing Vulcan over Andoria in the instance of a sector-wide Romulan assault-"

"There will be no preferential treatment! We have come to the aid of the humans at every turn, when the Xindi attacked Earth, when they located the proving ground near the-"

"You also attempted to steal the prototype weapon for use against the Vulcan people," Soval interrupted, pinning him under his gaze. They'd been arguing and going back and forth for years, and he was determined not to give Shran an inch, lest he try to take a mile.

"Yes, but we didn't succeed," he reminded him, and across the table, Archer dropped his face into his hands.

"How fortunate," Soval remarked dryly. "Point of order."

"The chair recognizes this point of order. Commander, you will have your chance of rebuttal once the Ambassador has made his final remarks. If you keep interrupting, I may be forced to entertain a motion to remove you from the chamber," Samuels said.

The look on Shran's face conveyed that he dearly wanted to see him try, but he fell silent nonetheless.

"I move that we limit the Andorians' rebuttal time to one minute," Ambassador Lexora said automatically, drawing ire from the contingent in question.

"Second," Chancellor Kalev called out.

"Objection!"

"This isn't a courtroom, Commander. We will now vote on the motion. All those in favor…" Samuels paused, allowing Hoshi to perform a quick count of the placards held up around the room. He didn't even ask for the dissent, tapping his gavel on the table and saying: "The chair is not in doubt. The motion carries."

"Very well," Shran began dangerously as he rose from his chair and turned to face her, his antennae moving around in double time. "Then I move that the presentation time of these big-foreheaded, blue eyed freaks be limited to-"

"Time!" Hoshi shouted, heralding the end of the morning session. Everyone in the room seemed to breathe a massive sigh of relief, knowing the proceedings had been cut off before Shran could lapse into what was most likely a series of colorful epithets.

"These negotiations will be reconvened in one hour. I would like to thank each and every one of you for a very…" Nathan sighed, and his eyebrows nearly climbed into his hairline. "...productive four hours. Now, I'd like to pass things off to the Commodore for a brief announcement."

Malcolm knew that was his cue, and immediately rose from his chair, trying and failing to keep his expression neutral. He could see that silvery pip glimmering away in his CO's hand, and modesty be damned, he was practically bursting with joy.

It seemed that he wasn't the only one. Trip cut a glance towards the viewport, where Alira stood huddled together with a bunch of MACOs, preparing to perform their hourly security sweep. As he watched, she bounced on her toes and rubbed her hands together, beaming at him with the moon and the stars shining in her eyes.

"It's my honor to be able to promote a very valuable member of my crew today. Without a doubt, if you've come across the Enterprise, you've crossed paths with our tactical officer." Archer paused, smiling at him knowingly, which was duly returned. "In the time he's served as our interim first officer, he's stepped up and dedicated himself to keeping this crew safe. He's come a long way from the officer I first met five years ago, and I am incredibly proud of him."

Something indecipherable stirred in his gut, and he realized for the first time how seldom he'd heard that phrase in his life. He realized he looked up to the Commodore, and though they'd been through everything together, and they were fairly close in age…

He looked up to him like a father.

Archer was moving now, seizing his lapel with both hands, working to secure his new pip there. He wasn't sure how long he'd been talking, or what he missed, but by the time he zoned back in, he was saying: "On this day, September 2nd, 2156, it is my honor to promote you to the rank of Commander."

There was a smattering of polite applause from around the room, louder from the United Earth and Denobulan delegations, and nearly thunderous from one officer in particular. This time, Trip turned around in his chair and moved his hands closer together, teasingly encouraging her to tone it down.

A few seconds later, the moment was broken, and the delegates were milling about, furtively consulting with their insubordinates or making beelines towards the door. Malcolm was fielding congratulations from damn near everyone, including a great big bear hug from Trip and a brisk handshake from T'Pol, which was practically an emotional outburst coming from her. He meant to find someone else, but it seemed that the moment he spotted her from across the room, she was gone, and he was left wandering through a crowd of strangers, momentarily adrift.

Captain Namara was on the move, to where he wasn't quite sure, but when she passed him, he thought he heard her grumbling. "Of all the self-congratulating, pompous, egotistical things to do during a negotiations meeting..." Her aide cleared his throat roughly, and she whipped around, catching his eye and offering him a not-too-convincing smile and halfhearted congratulations.

He wasn't sure if he thanked her or not, but his eyes followed her all the way to the door, where she passed Lieutenant Garcia, rolling out her shoulder and allowing a PADD to be passed into her palm. That move had been one of the first he'd been shown during his Section training, and he couldn't miss it for the world.

It was all very curious.

He found her at the far corner of the room, searching a supply locker for what must have been the fiftieth time that day. After their near-death experience on Rigel V, Alira had certainly learned her lesson, searching not only all of their delegates but also the entire crew of the Varan; the MACOs from the Maelstrom were out in force, and every so often during the negotiations he would see one or two of them duck outside the door, rotating posts to stay vigilant. Most of the attendees seemed to pay them little mind; security protocols had increased across the board since the war began, and the Enterprise crew had gotten used to seeing a MACO stationed on the bridge, in engineering, and in the armory at all times.

If he was excited to be promoted, she could best be described as ecstatic on his behalf; over subspace the night before, she hadn't been able to stop talking about it, even after he tried to divert the conversation. As usual, her natural enthusiasm was endearing, and he went to bed smiling, knowing full well he would have her in his arms the following night.

And maybe, just maybe, he'd have the courage to ask her what was truly on his mind.

As she scanned, she was humming quietly to herself, her entire upper body wedged between two of the middle cabinets. He wanted to reach out to her, but didn't want to spook her; as it was, he felt several pairs of eyes around the room on them, mostly the United Earth Council representatives, who had most likely picked up on the fact that Alira was avoiding the Denobulan delegation like the plague.

Eventually, she took notice of two boots standing less than a meter away, and reached for her the spare tricorder tucked into her pocket, passing it behind her without a second glance.

"We need an updated EM scan of the anterior corridor," she called out, her voice a bit muffled. When the mysterious figure didn't respond, she rattled the device in her palm. "Come on, move your ass!"

"Is that really how you speak to your MACOs?"

She startled at that voice, that inflection, so warm and so familiar that it immediately stirred something within her. She avoided striking her head against the shelf above her by a fraction of a centimeter, then righted herself, resisting the uncontrollable urge to throw her arms around him and squeeze with all her might.

"When they deserve it," she admitted, cutting a glance around the room. She caught a wayward look from General Vesena, but it was gone in an instant, and she clasped the tricorder with both hands, squeezing tightly. "Allow me to be the first to extend my congratulations, Commander."

"Actually, you're not the first," he teased, making a dramatic show of counting on his fingers. "Probably somewhere in the twenties."

"In that case, happy birthday." Her brilliant blue eyes flashed with something brief and indecipherable. "I suppose you wouldn't be up for a little celebration later?"

She was playing a dangerous game flirting with him so openly in public, and she knew it. Alira studied his expression, watching as it remained mostly impassive, with a little bit of bashful color sneaking its way across his cheeks.

"Captain Tucker's invited me for a beer, but I'm not so sure. There's quite a lot of work to do."

"Likewise. We're receiving our first shipment of nuclear warheads at 1700." They'd all seen the convoy arrive from Salvare Station, six heavy armored Daedalus class support ships surrounded by patrols and escorted by the Columbia. Erika's first officer had been perfectly shameless handing him his PADD detailing the delivery earlier in the morning, forceful yet nonchalant, as though he was daring him to call him out for enabling the destruction of Romulan settlements all over the quadrant.

"We've been told 1900 hours." He paused, watching her fingers carefully trace the borders of her tricorder. "You know, we really ought to put some work in on modifying the warp detection grid."

Less than a week had passed since their near disastrous encounter with the enemy at Barisa VI; there had been a dozen casualties spread across the fleet, from blunt force trauma to plasma fires to burst lungs from decompressed chambers. By some minor act of God, they hadn't lost any ships, while the Romulans had lost three or four, as well as what seemed to be the entire population of the makeshift command outpost on the surface.

Ethan and Julia's first attempt to steal a sensor beacon had almost been catastrophic; while they managed to take down the barrier, they'd been forced to set off the auto-detonation sequence of the unit to escape a bird-of-prey which had decloaked directly above them. Due mostly to some fancy flightwork on the part of their helmsman, they captured another one at the far end of the system, and spent a few frantic moments disabling it in the corridor right next to the transporter pad.

That discovery, apparently, was the crux of Admiral Gardner's modified defense strategy for the next six months of the war. It was Lieutenant Garcia from the Cochrane who suggested modifying the device to detect a broad range of systems, including life support and environmental control, which couldn't be switched off in the same way that the engines could.

After the stunt Rachel pulled during the MACO extraction, he was loath to trust or put his support behind anything she said, but this time, he had to admit it was a brilliant idea, and perhaps, United Earth's deliverance.

"I tend to agree. Your office, 2300 hours?" Her voice had dropped by almost an octave, and she met his gaze, issuing a silent challenge he had to protest.

He cleared his throat and pulled a strange sort of expression, taking a moment to gather himself. When he first tried to speak, all that came out was a nervous chuckle. "Ensign, we can't-"

"Can't what?" Her eyes were enormous, unblinking, her countenance perfectly innocent.

Don't make me say it, he thought fervently, shifting from side to side. He began to look for an out, but every member of their delegation seemed occupied, and he soon realized he was well and truly on his own.

But then again…

"I'll be there," he said before he could stop himself. "Be sure to come prepared."

"I'll bring my notes." Realizing she'd won, Alira broke out into one of her dazzling smiles, then took a step closer, the fire in her eyes downright smoldering. "And then..."

"Then?"

"And then you'll get your present."

Malcolm could feel the tips of his ears burning, but was powerless to do anything about it. He wanted to move away from her, but found that he was rooted in place, drawn to her like a magnet, captivated as the day he first saw her. It didn't escape him that they now found themselves in a similar situation, executing diplomatic orders around a round table with dozens of delegates, except now they were on an unfamiliar ship hundreds of light years from home, surrounded by people who would rather kill them than trust them.

It was enough to redirect his train of thought. He was about to ask her about what kind of progress she's actually made on modifying the warp detection grid - innuendo notwithstanding - when he was interrupted by someone calling out to them just a few meters away. He couldn't quite make out what they said, but Alira reacted instantaneously, pulling away and moving to greet their unexpected guest.

He'd seen him from across the way at the negotiating table, but now that they were standing side by side, the resemblance was uncanny. This man was blonde and blue-eyed as anything, towering over both of them at well over six feet. He seemed to be every bit as powerfully built as his sister, with a distinctive, confident swagger to his step that couldn't be ignored. For a split second, he thought they were going to wrap each other in a big bear hug, but Alira stopped at the last second, placing her hands a fraction of a centimeter above his shoulders, a gesture which he quickly returned.

She said something undecipherable, something so quiet that the UT couldn't pick it up, then she stepped to one side, gesturing towards him. They smiled, identically so, and Malcolm was left with a single thought in his mind.

Damn, did their mother have strong genes.

"Sir, this is my little brother, Mareth. He's the-"

"Chief barrister to the Supreme Council of Denobula," he interrupted, extending his arm straight out towards him. Somewhat warily, Malcolm shook his hand, flinching slightly as he bared down with force.

Mareth's expression, somewhat predictably, was unmoving.

"A pleasure," he assured him. "Commander Reed."

"I know," he replied somewhat ominously, then jerked his head back towards the table. "I don't suppose you've also been having trouble staying awake?"

He'd tried to keep his focus on the task at hand, but most of the details of the charter were dreadfully dull, so much so that he found his head dropping down to his chest once or twice. Hoshi kept him honest, nudging his shin underneath the table as she took notes about what was said, her fingers flying across her PADD. Every so often the negotiations would lapse into shouts or accusations of treachery, and he would startle awake, only to find himself on the receiving end of a probing glare from the Captain.

Mareth, of course, had maintained rapt attention throughout the proceedings, every so often leaning over to whisper in the ears of his superiors. He'd seen him searing holes into the skulls of the delegates, one by one, pausing intermittently to scribble into an old-fashioned notebook and giving silent visual cues when he deemed it vital for their contingent to speak. Each world present had one on their staff, a hired gun, a paid negotiator whose only role was to outsmart anyone and everyone around them.

To say that he was slightly intimidated by him was an understatement.

"A bit," he confessed, attempting to hold his own under his imploring gaze. "Weren't you assigned to the consulate in San Francisco before-"

"Before we were so ungraciously withdrawn?"

If he was in support of the Council's decision, he wasn't sure. His smile in that moment was unreadable, and he resolved not to question it.

"My second husband and I lived on Earth for about ten years, in San Francisco, Geneva, and New York City. Can't say I found the occasion to visit Great Britain."

"It's a little cold and gray, but there's so much history, so much old mixed with the new. It's lovely, Mareth."

"Or perhaps it's the company you were keeping," he said with a hint of teasing in his voice, and Malcolm was put slightly at ease.

He couldn't deny that their week traversing Europe, making pit stops in London, Paris, and Rome, had been absolutely transformative for their relationship. Though it had taken considerable encouragement from Trip, he was immensely glad he asked her, and knew he would remember their time together, the sightseeing and over indulging and the mornings they couldn't drag themselves from bed, as his own turning point from casual infatuation to all-consuming, soul-wrenching adoration.

"Did you hear about Vaneel?" He'd seemingly forgotten he was there, or perhaps he'd willingly excluded him from the conversation.

"I didn't," she confessed, her eyes glimmering in anticipation of what was most likely about to be a juicy bit of family gossip. Alira would never admit it, but she thrived on drama, as long as it wasn't her own. Though somewhat diverted, she was sure to fill him in: "Phlox and my mother's oldest daughter, the one I can stand."

"The surgeon," he said, and her smile grew a fraction of a centimeter wider knowing that he remembered. She never needed to know just how long he'd practiced to be able to memorize the faces and names of each of her eight siblings.

"Right," Mareth confirmed. "She's been serving on a science vessel, or at least she was until we hit lockdown. About a month before, she met someone during their travels."

From the way his tone wavered and his eyebrows danced, he could tell this was going to be good. Alira was almost bouncing on her toes. "Met someone?"

"His name is Pehle Ratab, he's a chemist that joined the crew during their expedition to Trelkis III. If I were human, I might say she was-" He gestured towards the top of his head, then pointed towards the ground. "Scalp over toes."

"Head over heels," he corrected him, and Mareth snapped his fingers to show that he was right.

"And?"

"He's an Antaran," he said, which seemed to completely floor her. Malcolm vaguely remembered that species from a long-ago mission, from a time where the word Xantoras didn't mean running for their lives from soldiers through a packed train station in search of nuclear contraband. While he and Trip had been rooting around below ground, attempting to persuade a trio of geologists to abandon their work and heed the provisional government's order to vacate the planet or wind up in front of a firing squad, Phlox had attempted to treat an Antaran following a reactor breach on a transport vessel.

At first, the man had seemed willing to die from his wounds, avoiding the doctor's treatment just to prove a point. He supposed he didn't blame him. Some three hundred years ago, their worlds had been locked in a heated interstellar war, and the Denobulan Infantry had lead a series of campaigns which had resulted in millions dead and thousands more taken for horrific medical experiments that left them maimed and disfigured. It was a terrible, shameful period in their history, and also a major source of motivation for Alira, who swore that no matter how bad things got, she would never stoop low enough to consider the mindless slaughter of millions.

The impending introduction of nuclear weapons to their arsenal aimed to challenge that.

Phlox and Taxa seemed to be from the same school of thought, teaching their children the bare facts of what they knew about the Antarans, to value people for their actions and who they really were, rather than write them off based on things they were powerless to change. His patient seemed to take this to heart, and promised to return home and spread the word of his experiences, a decision which had apparently lead to slightly relaxed relations between the two species.

At least for now.

Alira said something, an idiom for which there was no English equivalent, then pushed her hair back from her forehead, exhaling sharply. "That's incredible. I'd love to meet him, ask him questions about the-"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. They couldn't get married right now if they tried." That much was obvious; their entire system was locked down from within, with no off-worlders allowed to traverse their borders. From what he understood, the Alveron had been given special clearance to venture outside, the first ship to do so since Solnara. "I'm only telling you this because she's planning on seeking our guidance. It may be a bit of a stretch getting the Supreme Council to sign off on it, but I may be able to curry their favor."

"And I know how to bend the rules. Say what you want about Vaneel, but she knows how to get what she wants."

"Of course she does. Apparently, she's been taking a page out of your playbook." Mareth locked eyes with him and smiled again, this time with a hint of a challenge. Before he could respond, he stepped forward and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, a little awkwardly but with the expressed intent of seeming companionable. "You know, Mr. Reed, I'd like for you to join me during our next recess. We can talk about battle strategy, our arbitration-free declaration of sovereignty…"

Another MACO swept by, passing a PADD into Alira's hands. She accepted it, then turned to address him, giving Mareth just enough time to dip his head and whisper: "...and what your intentions are with my sister."

For a split second, he wondered if he was kidding, but from his severe expression, he could tell that was very far from the case. Malcolm was suddenly seized with a wave of anxiety he could not suppress. He wanted to tell him that he intended to marry her and support her and make sure she had everything she could possibly need for as long as he lived, but in the moment, he found himself speechless.

Alira's eyes were on him, and her curious expression catalyzed him. Clearing his throat, he nodded briskly and assured him: "Sounds perfect. Perfectly fine."

His voice came out a little warped and strangulated, and he was instantly desperate to hide it, reaching forward to retrieve the tricorder she offered earlier. He muttered some excuse about completing their security sweep, then hustled away, trying his best to avoid crossing paths with anyone and everyone.

Alira turned on her heels and came to stand next to her brother. Though they were unaware of it, they crossed their arms simultaneously, then tilted their heads to one side, their faces a nearly identical mix of bemusement and abstraction.

A second later, they both burst out laughing, which they tried and failed to muffle behind their hands. Mareth turned to her, wiping tears from his eyes, and whispered: "You were right! That was so easy!"

---

"So I said to him, I don't care how wonderful life is here or how it never rains or how no one is ever unhappy, you've got to be aware of the risks of staying here, and allow us to protect you if the Romulans come knocking-"

"And what did he say?"

"Nothing!" Laura cried in exasperation, sinking down further into the chaise and covering her eyes with her hand. The gesture was momentary, for the next she was pointing towards the hatch, waggling her fingers as though she was casting some sort of magical hex. "He just kept floating around, this technicolor disembodied head in a bubble, grinning and making faces and stopping us from entering at every turn!"

"What kind of place is this?" Erika was searching one of her shelves for certain record and attempting to hide her smile. With all the tragedy they witnessed in the Solnaran system for months after the battle, she figured the Cochrane deserved a lighthearted house call to the quadrant's most enigmatic colony of free spirits, one that she'd heard about, but never had the opportunity to visit.

"Some kind of conglomeration of artists, philosophers, and freethinkers, all species I've never seen before. Bloody bunch of pretentious melters, if you ask me." Laura took another delicate sip of her wine, then did away with all pretense and gulped it down, furrowing her eyebrows in frustration. Privately, Erika mused that she really had no idea how adorable that face was. "Eventually, this firebreather comes out of nowhere to tell us that only those whose hearts are joyous may enter."

"Let me guess, that didn't include you?" She made a small sound of triumph, then stood with some difficulty, making her way over to her turntable. The dust cover came off, the needle came down, and soon the room was filled with soft music, a soprano singing voice, and the robust tones of a saxophone.

"Certainly not. Lieutenant Garcia didn't make the cut either. My first officer went, though, and they invited her into a mud bath. When she refused, they made her participate in something called the laughing hour, and then their leader came out of nowhere, talking about how every moment has to have a purpose, and the higher, the fewer…"

"What the hell does that even mean?"

"I don't know! These people have no idea about what's going on outside their own system, or the fact that they're only twenty light years away from Yadalla Prime, or that they'll be slaughtered if they don't cooperate with us. They just choose not to think about anything unpleasant; there's no place they'd rather be."

She didn't respond. The opener was just reaching her favorite part, and she began to sway in time to the music as she puttered around her quarters, swinging her hips and humming quietly to herself. Laura watched her, wondering if her movements were intentional or purely unconscious, and realized that this was the Erika that no one else got to see.

Sure, their good friend Jon might have, but that was years ago, and this was now. They were alone in her quarters, and it was late, and they were enjoying one another's company regardless of the death and destruction raining down on the quadrant all around them.

It really was ironic, in a way, considering everything she'd just said.

"Where would you be right now if you could be anywhere?"

"Here with you," she replied automatically, deciding not to think about how fanciful that question was. Their time together was short, and she was determined not to waste it. She couldn't deny the affection she felt for this woman, the warmth her smile afforded her, the elation she felt when they bantered and argued back and forth, the tenderness with which she embraced her, as though she was the only other person in the galaxy.

Erika was her anchor. She was her strength, and now was no exception.

Slowly, she turned to her, glass in one hand, and sauntered towards her, pausing intermittently to snap with her free hand and lean back on her heels. At some point, she'd unzipped her coveralls and tied it around her waist, rolling up her undershirt sleeves to expose her arms. Her eyes glimmered, the zippers on her jumpsuit shined, and she seemed to radiate happiness from every fiber of her being. She was performing now, and Laura was only too willing to entertain it. "Use your imagination."

She had to think about it for a moment. Finally, her smile returned in force, and she beckoned her with one curled finger, a call which she readily obeyed. The moment she dropped to her knees and propped her elbows on the edge of the couch, Laura reached forward to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I'd love to take you to picnic on the Cliffs of Moher, and back to my favorite tavern. It's hundreds of years old; there's decades of stories etched into those booths."

"You've told me there's nothing more beautiful than County Clare in the summertime," Erika said softly. "I'm not so sure that's true."

So now she'd been reduced to idle flattery. Her cheeks colored momentarily, but she quickly brushed it aside. "Oh, stop. What about you?"

"I'd take you to my grandmother's home on the former reservation." Her reply came automatically, and Laura realized she'd had the answer prepared. The look in her eye grew far off and wistful, and she continued to stroke her cheek with the lightest of touches. "You haven't lived until you've seen a New Mexico sunset."

Laura knew they were both well past the age where something as small as meeting the family should cause anxiety, but she still felt her heart flutter in her chest. For years, they'd been friends before losing touch and finding one another again, and now, she couldn't help but wonder why they didn't give things a try years ago. Truthfully, she hadn't felt this way with anyone in over a decade, and she hated to think that all that time at STC, this kind of happiness had been just under her nose.

"Then we'll drive into Taos and go dancing. There's this wonderful little place that does flamenco..."

"And you don't think that two Starfleet Captains would draw attention?" Sure enough, as the fleet grew and new ships were commissioned, their faces were everywhere on the news; multiple times, Laura's father had sent her stories about herself, heralding her bravery and ingenuity out onto the field and leaving out all the distasteful details. It was wondrous, really, just how well the propaganda machine at HQ worked.

"I suppose you're right. You'll have to find a wig, the more poofy and ridiculous the better. I'll wear a big hat, and maybe a moustache…"

She laughed, and Erika joined in, rising to her heels and wrapping her arms around her. It was a romantic notion, especially as they found themselves so far from home, but she was determined to get there eventually, to dance with her and sashay around the floor and hold her close, no matter how many people were around them, no matter who was looking at them.

For one night, they could forget about duty and rank and just...be.

From across the room, her tricorder beeped, and they both startled, pulling apart. Since their encounter with a modified Tarali-class transport in the Deneva system, which thoroughly gutted and slaughtered the crewmen aboard the ECS Kingston, she'd been on the hunt, pursuing her great white whale across this sector and the next. Each of those vessels had been decommissioned a hundred years ago and were so obsolete that they were no longer kept in any of the Vulcan surplus depots. It implied that the Romulans were going through a private trader or a smuggler, and that someone was directly committing treason by doing business with them.

It was enough to fill her with a deep, seething rage, and a burning need to find out what had happened. She'd kept an open scanning frequency for weeks hoping to pick up something, but this was the first time she'd picked up anything.

Laura didn't intend to waste the opportunity.

She was on her feet in a second, collecting her tricorder from the desk and studying the readouts. Erika scrutinized her expression, how her eyes widened and shoulders tightened, then quickly went to her side, confirming her fears.

"There's several here. A dozen, maybe two." She turned towards the viewport, studying the barren curve of Paan Mokar far below them. "Why didn't we pick them up until now?"

The origin of the readings appeared to be on the far side of the map, and she matched it with what she saw, finding the approximate location on the surface. "They were on the far side of the planet, and it's just now coming into daylight. The interference has yet to be totally remedied. We'd better move fast."

"Excuse me?"

Erika was moving, sliding her arms back into her sleeves and zipping her uniform up to the collarbone. She struggled into her left boot, then the other, hopping around and attempting to tie the laces as she did so. "We need the element of surprise. If there really is a smuggler down there, we don't want to come roaring in with a dozen MACOs and cause a firefight. The charter's due to be signed in just a few hours."

"So you're suggesting that we beam down in the middle of the night and apprehend them ourselves?"

"Exactly." The drawer came open, and she located her phase pistol, clipping it onto her waistband. Laura was still dreadfully lost, thrown for a loop over the developments of the past few minutes. She knew Erika was never one to do things by the book; in contrast to Archer, she was a bit of a renegade, but she never took a risk unless she knew it was worth it. In her mind, the decision to assist HQ with the building of nuclear warheads had been completely justified, and over time, Laura had warmed up to it, even though she didn't care for the idea that her thumb would be on the trigger. "Look, there's a couple other Andorian ships in orbit right now. They're terraforming the hell out of this place. There's a very small list of suspects, and even if we can narrow it down even a little…"

"I'm sorry, do you think that the Andorians are selling off downed ships from the last time they fought over this planet with the Vulcans just to betray us? Erika, that doesn't make any sense. They're some of the most vocal supporters of this Coalition."

"Shran is," she corrected him. "You're forgetting that Namara and God knows how many others plotted to kill him to get out of it. As it is, the Imperial Council is only in favor of these negotiations to cover their own asses, to defend their own homeworld from the Romulans and alternate reality Denobulans and whoever else comes strolling up to their front door."

"So what you're saying is-"

"I wouldn't put it past them," Erika concluded, passing a second weapon into her hands. Laura realized that she couldn't either, and quickly attempted to force her hair into something passable.

She was bouncing on her toes in anticipation as she arranged the site-to-site transport, so much so that she couldn't help but comment on it. "Excited much?"

"Commander Mbatha never lets me go on away missions. Too dangerous, he says."

That wasn't far from the truth. "Should we wake up the Commodore?"

"In due time," Erika said, initiating the countdown from her computer console. She joined her in the middle of the room and tentatively interlaced their fingers together, steeling her against what they were likely about to witness. "In the meantime, what Jon doesn't know won't hurt him."

No, but it might hurt us, Laura thought, a second before she vanished in a cascade of light.

---

Malcolm was dreaming, though about what, he wasn't quite sure.

He wasn't one to live out full scenarios outside of his waking hours; most of the time, his mind produced flashes of memory and circumstance, some pleasant, others traumatic, but mostly innocuous. For years, he'd woken up in a cold sweat, running from glimpses of the Xindi crisis or any number of the missions Harris had put him through as a young man, but as of now, those memories were far away.

This time, he was dreaming in glimpses of a coastline, where the cliffs met the water met the sky, overlooking the North Atlantic village where he'd grown up. Then he was running, seeking shelter from the early morning drizzle and the fog sweeping in from the sea. Inside the cottage, a hearth was roaring, and he was cuddled up under blankets next to the woman he loved, warm and content and perfectly at ease. Safe.

She was smiling at him, her fingers curling into his hair, whispering some story or sweet nothing, and he could see the flames reflecting in her eyes, smoldering as they ever were. It felt so real and so hopeful and so beautiful that he didn't realize that he was even unconscious until he jolted awake in the darkness of his quarters, realizing that he was actually quite cold and alone.

Immediately, he reached for her, then rolled over, discovering that she'd moved all the way over to sit on the edge of the bed. Much to his chagrin, she'd also stolen the covers again, drawing them around her as she studied the deck plating, seemingly deep in thought.

His fingers came up to trace the ridge running the length of her spine, and she relaxed into them, but said nothing. A second later, he sat up and threw her arms around her, dropping kisses from the crook of her neck into the hollow behind her ear, expecting her to respond but feeling nothing of the sort. Curiously, he propped his chin on her shoulder and peered into the darkness, realizing that she was balancing his personal PADD in her hands.

"You've got a message," she said, and her voice was so marred by trepidation he scarcely recognized it.

Alira activated the screen, and it took him a moment to read the words printed there, but once he did, he reached forward and retrieved it, bringing it within centimeters of his face.

INCOMING TEXT-ONLY TRANSMISSION. REED, MADELINE MARY. LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM, EUROPEAN HEGEMONY, UNITED EARTH.

She knew, just as well as he did, that his sister was currently on sabbatical, having embarked on a six-month research mission to the Galapagos with several colleagues. They both realized that this message could really have only come from one person.

Or a group of people, rather.

His heart was already thudding away in his chest. During their clash with Terra Prime, Malcolm had made a deal with the devil, promising to work for the Section again as long as Harris furnished them with the information they needed to rescue little Elizabeth Tucker. He knew it would come back to bite him, but prayed that day would never come. With Alira's tenuous state of affiliation, Pascal's threat of consequences for their failed mission on Xantoras, and Al-Shahrani's promise of an incoming ultimatum, he was quite sure it had now arrived, and he would soon be called upon to make a horrific choice.

One that threatened to take away the only bit of happiness he was clinging to in the madness of the war.

Knowing full well that the inevitable couldn't be avoided, he unlocked the screen and read the message once, then twice, before setting it aside and dropping his head into his hands.

She was there in an instant, hugging him tightly, having followed his reaction to its natural conclusion. In turn, he clung to her as though his life depended on it, as though it was his last chance.

It might be, now that he thought about it.

"I'm coming with you."

"No you're not. I can't guarantee your safety if you go."

"You can't guarantee my safety if I stay," she reminded him. Or his own, for that matter. She knew they were both in danger for even speaking their desire to get out of the Section into existence during a moment of weakness on that stolen freighter bound for the Bowerman Nebula. They'd heard stories of what happened to rogue operatives. Mysterious accidents befell their loved ones. Their careers were ruined or they were imprisoned or they disappeared altogether. For a moment, she cursed the second she ever shook Harris's hand and sealed her fate, though irrationally, she was grateful for it, because it had led her to him.

Even if it all came crashing down that night, she was thankful for the time they had.

"I don't even have diplomatic transporter codes. Even if you could come, there's no way for us to get down there unless we steal a shuttlepod." That was something that would get noticed almost instantly, and he didn't want to have to answer to the Commodore when they got back. Or Pascal.

He was halfway expecting to meet him down there anyway.

She pulled away, and her absence left him feeling cold and bereft, but then she was on her feet, retrieving her own PADD from his desk. "I think I might know someone who has what we need."

It took him a moment to understand what she was saying; sleep's haze was still clearing steeply, but he was still quick to react, his hand cutting a sharp arc in the air. "No, absolutely not. We're not asking your brother for his delegation's access codes."

Already she was typing, and he was suddenly desperate to stop her from roping anyone else into their scheme. If the truth got out in a way other than the controlled, measured manner he'd intended, they were doomed, and both due for a court martial.

"He's not going to say yes, beloved. His alliances lay with Lexora and Zanthras and all the others. I'm not even sure we can-"

"He already did," she interrupted, turning her PADD around to show him the double-wide string of numbers and letters there. Alira waited a beat or two for him to protest, then began to shimmy back into her uniform. Something, he could tell, was happening, and he needed to put a stop to it before things got out of hand.

Her back was turned to him, and she was rummaging around in his drawer looking for God knew what. Finally, he stood and approached her, grabbing her by the shoulders and forcing her to look at him. They remained there deadlocked for a few seconds, reexamining their priorities and motivations, before she decided she didn't intend to leave his side for anything.

"I'm with you," she insisted, impossibly firm. "Today, tomorrow, and forever. As I told you before-"

"You're going to have a hard time getting rid of me," he finished for her, realizing their pact was sealed. "Promise me you'll stay a safe distance back, and if things start to look dicey-"

"We'll be prepared." She produced one phase pistol from his drawer and another from under the mattress. "And if they decide to do another sensor sweep in the middle of the night…" A handful of round, circular devices came out of her pocket, and she threw two of them on the mattress before covering them up with the blanket.

He recognized them as the mobile emitters the Captain carried around to disguise her biosign from sensors, which was dangerously close to a full-blooded Romulan even with the improvements they'd made. "And what about on the surface?"

"Nothing here but us Andorians." She tossed one into his hand, followed by his undershirt. It was already partially buttoned up, but he still spotted what she had been trying to hide. The tiny black dot blended in on the collar, but it felt warm to the touch, and he instantly knew what it was.

"I'm not going to wear a wire." The very idea of it was insane. The fact that she was even considering gathering info to blackmail the most powerful underground intelligence ring in the quadrant was completely, utterly, off-the-walls preposterous.

"Actually, I think that you are. There's no harm in it. We need leverage, you said so yourself." Every fiber in his being was telling him not to go along with it, but he knew she was right. He didn't hesitate any further, drawing it on over his head and going in search of his coveralls. "And if everything go south, I've got my holographic emitter ready to go."

"Before me, did you always show up to your booty calls prepared to go to war?"

She rolled her eyes, deploying air quotes. "I prefer the term late night rendezvous."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night." He slipped one leg into his pants, then the other, whispering: "Wait..."

This time, she couldn't help but laugh. Even in the dire straits they presently found themselves in, they weren't above a little teasing. She enjoyed the moment, for it was one of the last ones they were likely to have.

They soon beamed down in the late pre-dawn hours, with the barest hints of orange and indigo teasing the horizon. The broken and fractured shapes of mortared buildings were interspersed with panels of metal siding and crumbling archways, the remnants of a long-ago war that neither of them were alive to see. He took it that they were in the middle of an as-yet reclaimed Andorian settlement. Little patches of green had sprung up underfoot, indicative of their terraforming efforts, but a lingering chill still hung in the air, along with the musty smell of smoke and decay.

"Did they say where?"

He nodded, retrieving his PADD and studying the coordinates. "If I'm not mistaken, they're about a half kilometer to the north."

"The nearest Andorian biosign is a full kilometer away, but they're on the move." She frowned, squinting into the near darkness around them. The walls rose high above them on three sides, but she still felt as though a hundred eyes were on them. The weight of history was palpable even now, of the thousands of colonists who had been exterminated to make way for Vulcan interests. "We should go."

They moved quietly through the ruins, pausing every now and then to scan ahead. It felt quiet, eerily so, and goosebumps were rippling up her arms.

"Why did they lure me down here? Why not just talk about this on the ship?"

"To see how far you'll go," she replied automatically, as though it were obvious. "I'm sure this is about the signing of the charter. On Enterprise, there would be too many witnesses, too many listening ears…"

"We shouldn't even be here. I don't know what we'll say if we get caught."

"I've got the feeling we're not the only ones down here tonight."

"What makes you say that?"

She all but shoved the tricorder in his face, showing four human biosigns total within five kilometers, separated in groups of two. With all the interference caused by the terraforming components in the atmosphere, they hadn't been able to detect them in orbit, but now, it was plain as the nose on his face.

"Rosalind and Corsica," he mumbled, coming up empty as to the identity of the others. His hands reflexively strayed to his phase pistol, knowing full well if they intended to corner him and kill him they would have the leg up.

"If something goes wrong, you won't be able to contact me. I'll be within earshot. Don't shout, but knock something over. Throw something against the wall."

"And what will you do?"

She inverted her pocket, revealing a half dozen stun grenades.

"Of course." They were within spitting distance of the rendezvous point now, a seemingly nondescript abandoned building whose roof was mostly intact. He took a deep breath to steady himself, then reached over to take hold of her hand, squeezing with all of his might.

She wanted to tell him to be safe or to be careful, but knew that their reckless actions were behind such pleasantries. Instead, she returned his gesture, then lifted his hand to her lips and kissed his palm, a second before he pulled away and disappeared into the shadows.

The ensuing silence was overpowering. Swiftly, she turned on her heels and crouched down behind a stone barricade. She counted to one hundred, then two hundred, before starting to grow concerned and checking her tricorder again.

Sure enough, none of the human biosigns were anywhere near them, a fact which she found troubling. Even the Andorians seemed to be moving away, far towards the south, where they were converging on a vacant air strip. It was all very curious, and were it not for the task of hand, she might have entertained investigating it further.

Suddenly another blue dot appeared on the map schematic, much closer this time, so close that it was almost on top of her. Alira's breath caught in her throat, and she began to shuffle away towards a more defensive position.

She heard it then: the brief scramble of footsteps on the rock somewhere behind her. It stopped, and they were both listening, patiently waiting, anticipating the other's move. Her own heartbeat was unbearably loud in her ears.

As one, they started to move closer and closer together. She meant to take her guest by surprise, but a second later, they were there, whirling around the corner, and they both found themselves with the business end of a particle weapon pressed into their foreheads.

"Shran?" It came out in a deep, shuddering gasp, and she couldn't suppress her own shock. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I ought to ask you the same question." His antennae swiveled around to point directly towards her, then he exhaled in frustration. "Is everyone on Weytahn tonight?"

"Lower your weapon."

"You first."

"Not until you tell me why you're here."

"If you don't tell me, I'll contact Archer right now and tell him you're trespassing on Andorian territory."

"I've read the mission logs. There's not a communicator in the universe that can get through this interference."

"Would you really risk the peace we're trying to achieve with this charter by pulling some kind of stunt the night before?"

"You seem to believe there's some kind of threat down here. Why else would you be armed?"

"I'm free to carry my weapon whenever I please. No one, not Starfleet or the Denobulan Infantry, could change that."

"And we know just how much you love the Infantry."

"About as much as I love any species which uses our resources and protection and gives nothing back."

"We never wanted any part of this," she protested, then inhaled sharply, understanding that the implication there was that sometimes she desperately wished they did get involved. "Or anything to do with the Imperial Guard, but it seems that sometimes that's not enough."

"Come out and say what you mean, Ensign," he challenged, and it occurred to her that this was her shot that Harris had promised her so long ago. After sixteen years of chasing him across the quadrant, she was finally alone with Shran, and it would only take a single pulse from her phase pistol to enact the revenge she'd desperately wanted for so long.

Her finger flexed over the trigger, but she did not act.

"Tell me what happened the night General Taxa was killed." He started to speak, but she cut him off, her voice thick with emotion. "Now, I've been led to believe you and Captain Namara murdered him, but the man who told me wasn't the most forthcoming, and I'm not so sure anymore. You have to tell me the truth, because if you don't, I'm going to blow your brains out."

His stunned expression told him everything she needed to know. The self-confident smirk was back in a second, then he relaxed, kneeling down so he could place his weapon on the ground. He stood, placing himself back into harm's way. "Do you insist on holding me at gunpoint the entire time?"

"Yes," she stated plainly, lowering it until she could press the barrel into his chest. "Now start talking."

Shran took in a deep, steadying breath, one which seemed to be wholly out of character for him. "You're not going to believe me when I say this, but…"

"We're not off to a good start."

"I know that," he insisted. "Please listen. Back in 2140, the Kalaine was assigned to rendezvous with your father's patrol in a blind spot off the grid from any of your listening posts, but we weren't there to meet him. We were supposed to conduct a cargo drop with a man known to us as Captain Varox."

She knew him well, as her former mentor, as the one who had coaxed her into Special Ops and told her how her father and betrothed and the rest of the crew had been brutally slaughtered, who had filled her full of rage and forced her through a series of traumatic missions that she was still recovering from to this day. Later, once he'd been burned from the Section, he'd tried to kill her and Malcolm, so he could continue selling the materials necessary to build nuclear weapons to both sides of the war. By all accounts, he was a disreputable character, and looking back, she was shocked that she'd trusted him at all.

"What kind of cargo?"

"Handheld weapons mostly." He grimaced, holding up his hands in an attempt to hold the fury he saw in her eyes at bay. "The Supreme Council was assisting us in our latest round of skirmishes with the Vulcans, and rest assured, they were paid handsomely."

"You're lying. They would never get involved in something like that."

"But they did, and they soon realized their mistake, which is why they're not getting involved now." His eyes drifted down to her phase pistol, which was starting to shake rather furiously. "They were having the evening meal. The other members of his crew were members of Special Ops, but he didn't know that. He just knew they'd received additional tactical training to keep him safe. This wasn't the first time they'd made a delivery like this."

"Call me crazy, but I'm having a hard time believing that all of this could have happened under his nose. He was the Supreme Commander." Taxa was, according to her memory, an extremely sharp and vigilant man. He was the pinnacle of kindness and servitude to her, of strength and gentleness, an image which was slowly starting to crumble away.

"It did though, and they took internal sensors offline, but didn't get to his personal tricorder in time. Once he found out..." Shran snapped his fingers, an oddly human gesture she was sure he picked up from the Commodore. "They needed an extraction. Soon we were surrounded by ships, little transports, and the rest of the crew was gone. It happened in seconds. I have no idea where they went."

Her blood immediately went ice cold, and she almost lost her grip on her weapon altogether. If this was true, Varox had faked his death, and her former betrothed could still be alive. Nieron could be deep undercover, or living under a fake name, but the fact remained that when she heard he was dead it had been ten days before their wedding, and she'd cried inconsolably for weeks on end.

For almost two decades, she'd sworn off serious attachments, content to be among friends and casual lovers. She hid the hurt behind everything else, buried it under layers of trauma and repressed memories, until the moment it came roaring back in a hallucination, and he had urged her to come clean. He'd been a ghost for so long that she had to give it some thought as to whether it would change anything if he suddenly came waltzing back into her life again.

It most certainly wouldn't. Of that she was sure.

"And Varox?" Her voice was so quiet it was nearly inaudible.

"They were fighting hand-to-hand, tearing at each other, screaming about honor and loyalty and betrayal." Shran trailed off, unable to erase the mental image of blood coating the General's face, chest, and arms. He'd cried out, begged for mercy as he desperately scrambled for a victory that was only too fleeting, and Shran had almost come to his aide.

Namara, however, insisted they fled from the system before it was too late. They exchanged heated words at the far end of the cargo bay as Taxa fought for his life, but in those days she was his Captain, and there was little he could do without her forcing the other Lieutenants to turn their weapons on him the next time he questioned her orders.

He'd seen plenty of men die before, and it hadn't affected him nearly as much as his had. The deliveries from the Supreme Council stopped after that, and he was wholly expecting retaliation or else a declaration of interstellar war, but they retracted within themselves once again, declaring what happened to the General to be an unfortunate accident. A warning shot fired across their bow had inadvertently struck the EPS conduit above the bridge, setting off an explosion that killed the crew.

It was a simple enough explanation, one that Namara was more than satisfied with. They had what they came for, and that was good enough for their fight against the Vulcans. He became aware, years later, that the poor man's daughter was attempting to hunt him down and discover the truth, which remained elusive. Every time he saw her face to face, he was reminded of the whole conspiracy, of the unfortunate set of circumstances that had meant her father's demise.

Alira, it seemed, was having trouble accepting this. Her face was a storm of emotions, a mess of realization, as she came to understand that the Chancellor and the Ambassador and the new Supreme Commander had all been in on it, and what's more, they were perfectly content to allow her to snap necks and crack skulls across the quadrant in search of revenge that she would certainly never achieve.

It had fundamentally changed her as a person, turned her bitter and vengeful and prone to fits of rage. For years, she'd done horrible things in the name of Special Ops and later the Section, and told herself it was all justified to make things right. She lost count of how many nights she'd laid in bed and wept desperately, praying for resolution, praying for reprieve from the overwhelming grief that threatened to crush her from the inside. It altered the course of her life, and now…

Now, she would have to deal with the consequences.

"You don't believe me," Shran challenged.

She didn't want to, but she had no other choice. It explained the Supreme Council's reluctance to get involved in the war or avenge her mother's death; it explained General Vesena's standoffishness, which had become so much worse over the past two decades. It explained the Section's eagerness to bring her into the fold, and ultimately, it explained to her that she'd been used every bit of the way, her own emotions manipulated, as though she'd had no free will of her own.

"I do," she said quietly. "I'm just having a hard time with…"

"I have no doubt that your father was a good man, a principled one." He paused, watching her lower her weapon until it was at her side. "If even half of the officers in the Infantry had the moral compass the both of you do, the service would be a lot better for it."

"Shran, I…" For the first time in a long time, Alira was truly at a loss as to what to say. For so many years, she'd villainized this man, turned him into an object of scorn, and made attempts on his life more times than she could count. But now, she saw him as a victim of circumstance, of being misled and forced to obey orders, the very same as her.

"I'm glad we've settled this," he interrupted, momentarily stepping away to retrieve his pistol. "Now, to answer your question, I have reasons to suspect that Captain Namara is working with a smuggling ring to supply abandoned Vulcan vessels to the enemy that were left behind when they abandoned Weytahn the last time. I've found correspondence and receipts of sale. I plan to take her down once and for all."

She reflexively glanced at her tricorder; this time, the four human biosigns were on the move, heading towards where the Andorians were congregated at the south end of the settlement. At first she'd been unsure as to who these other two could be, but she was starting to wonder if they couldn't be Pritchard and Hernandez, chasing a ghost of a sensor reading left behind by a Tarali-class transport, which she'd been trying to track down for months.

And they'd been lured into this mess as well, mere moments from the collision of worlds between the Section, the service, and the seedy black market trade underbelly that traversed the quadrant.

Alira had thoroughly lost track of time, and was now unsure exactly how much had elapsed since Malcolm disappeared into the abandoned warehouse. She hadn't heard anything, but now she was on high alert, and she didn't even wait for him to respond before she pressed forward into the shadows.

---

Malcolm stepped into the warehouse and into a sudden blast of heat and a nearly impenetrable cloud of smoke.

He coughed, then wheezed, already fighting the caustic air threatening to burn his lungs. The ground was positively boiling, threatening to sear the rubber right off his boots. His flashlight came out, and he soon realized he was standing atop several metal grates, which seemed to be belching forth the contents of several subterranean vents running underneath the settlement.

The perimeter of the building was dotted with crumbling arches and columns, all in the same nondescript gray color, studded with carvings and inscriptions in what he surmised was Andorian. There was nothing else in the chamber, nothing indicative of anyone ever having inhabited it. He backed up into the middle of the room, training the light towards the ceiling, moving around in a circle, halfway expecting someone to come charging out of the darkness at any second.

His premonition was soon fulfilled; there was a crackle of electricity, followed by a flash of something indecipherable glimmering out of the corner of his eye. Malcolm turned just in time to see the form of Commander Zhang, officially known in this capacity as Agent Long, appear at the far end of the room. Rapidly, he reached for his phase pistol and set his sights, aiming directly at her head. To her credit, she didn't react, but she did smile, a purely dispassionate gesture that came off as wholly insincere.

It was only then he realized something wasn't right. She appeared slightly blue in color, and a little transparent; taking a step forward, he soon discovered that he was looking at a holographic projection, approximately the same size and height as the real person, but certainly imposing nonetheless.

"Agent Winston," she began, and beckoned him forward. As he moved ahead of the nearest awning, he glanced up into the ceiling, but couldn't make out a light source, let alone the origin of this frighteningly realistic recreation. Soon they were standing within arm's reach, and against his best judgment, he holstered his phase pistol, seeing as she couldn't harm him if she was really somewhere else. "It's quite alright. I can see and hear you, but can't touch you."

"Are you back on Starbase 1?" He questioned as she reached forward to broach the plane of her shoulder. His hand passed right through, and she held steady.

"I am. Thank you for agreeing to meet me on such short notice."

It occurred to him that Long was different from his former mentor; she was strangely cordial, anachronistically so, and if what Alira had told him was true, tended to veil her threats behind flattery and insinuation. If he wanted to give nothing away, he would need to tread carefully.

"What do you need from me?" It was a simple question, but exactly what she wanted to hear.

"Harris and I have an assignment for you. When we discussed it, we could think of no one better suited." She paused, studying his expression for the lingering effects of her words, then forged on: "It has become apparent to us that Captain T'Pol's ancestry represents a clear and present threat to the security of the Coalition."

He knew she expected him to react to that statement, but he stopped himself just short of it. Malcolm realized, with a sudden pang of fear, that this meant Ensign Pascal knew about the extent of the hybrid plot as well.

"I'll be perfectly candid with you. Due to your recent dalliance with another agent, you have made it clear to us that you cannot be trusted to follow through with orders." At least not theirs, he thought, shifting from foot to foot. She seemed to wait, to hold onto the moment endlessly, then dropped the bombshell of the century. "You will gather all the evidence you need to prove that your commanding officer is half Romulan, the daughter and half-sister of two different chairmen of the Tal Shiar, and send them anonymously to Admiral Gardner. You may also deliver it to him by hand. It's your choice."

Truthfully, he'd rather saw off his own arm with a rusty nail than betray his colleague. He knew her ancestry was suspect, but from what he could see, her intentions were pure, perfectly aligned with that of the alliance as they ever were. Her career hinged on San Francisco's unconditional trust in her, and just as he'd been all those months ago when the Commodore let him in on their secret, he intended to protect her at any cost.

"And in exchange?" The words came out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"We will ensure that command of the Enterprise invariably falls into your hands."

It felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. They remained there for a beat, staring each other down, then he shook his head, resisting the urge to laugh. "I've only just been promoted to Commander yesterday."

"And when T'Pol is removed, you will be named acting Captain. You'll be able to promote who you wish, initiate officer transfers as you see fit." Her insinuation was obvious.

Malcolm knew that with the shipbuilding yards at Utopia Planitia were working overtime to keep up with demand from the war effort; the NX-07 Ares and the NX-08 Apollo were being commissioned in three weeks, followed by two more after that, month by month for the next six. There were very few officers remaining that were both qualified and willing to take a front lines posting, and he knew that in the event the Captain was incapacitated, he would very likely be put on the fast track for his own command. And, what's more, he would have the love of his life on his senior staff, by his side day by day. The idea was tempting.

Not tempting enough.

"And if I choose not to expose her?"

She smiled tersely, as though she'd anticipated that question. "I can assure you the truth will be revealed whether you comply or not."

He had no doubt about that. His chest was burning, possibly due to the acrid air in this warehouse, but most likely out of sheet terror. He was seized with the undeniable urge to reveal their involvement to the captain, to hatch some kind of plan to get them all out of this situation, but deep down, he knew it was probably too late to make any real difference.

"Furthermore, I'd like to make one more thing perfectly clear: if you do not cooperate, I will see to it that your paramour is burned. The trap is set, and I only just need to activate it."

Malcolm faltered momentarily, clenching his fist and burying it in his side. He knew they were nothing more than pawns to them, and that she'd made herself an enemy by refusing to cover up the smuggling efforts of the ECS. He knew that having Section affiliates at the helm of four different NX vessels was immensely appealing to them. He also knew that they'd already tried to kill her once, ordering Lieutenant Garcia to do away with her in the marshes of Barisa VI, but she'd miraculously spared her out of what remained of the goodness of her heart.

Out of the humanity that he was sure Agent Long did not possess.

"We tried once. This time, I promise you we will not fail."

He inhaled slowly, heeding the alarm bells ringing in his head. He knew there was a way to play this, a way to spin this so that they all prevailed and lived to see another day, but for the time being, he could think of nothing else but losing her.

If he lost her, he was positive he would also lose all hope. If he lost her, he knew he would never open his heart to anyone ever again. If he lost her, he knew he would spiral into a deep depression greater than he'd ever experienced, so all-consuming that he wasn't sure if he could ever get out of it.

The very thought of it was paralyzing.

"How long do I have?"

"Three months' time. Do not fail us, Agent Winston," she warned, then ended the transmission. Her form disappeared in a spark of light, and it was all he could do not to fall to his knees and succumb to the storm raging within.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there, fighting with his fears and his demons, trying and failing to control his racing heart. The next thing he knew, he heard her calling out to him, and turned to see her charging through the darkness towards him, her expression fraught with concern.

Commander Shran emerged from the shadows next, effectively ending his hope for a cut-and-dry midnight sojourn to Paan Mokar.

---

Agent Rosalind was growing more and more concerned by the minute.

It didn't help that her mission partner, one Agent Corsica, seemed to be perfectly nonchalant about the urgency of their task. He moved slowly, indifferently, as though there wasn't any reason to be concerned, as if they weren't currently racing against the clock to preserve the very fabric of the Coalition itself.

She'd been involved with the Section a lot longer than he had; that much was obvious. Harris had recruited her specifically for her loyalty and attention to detail, both qualities which had been called out in her psychological profile. Their rapport was strong, and for some time now, he'd called her his golden child. As the years passed, she remained first and foremost because she didn't have a choice, but also because she believed in their objectives, believed in their mission, believed that without them the state of affairs in the quadrant would degrade irreparably.

Men like Corsica, however, were only there for the glory. They'd grown up idolizing Bond and Bauer and Bourne, and fancied themselves men of action, untouchable, incorruptible. She'd met a thousand of them over the years, and each one she detested more than the last.

At times like this, she needed to brush these feelings aside. Let them be there for the flash and the bang. She would remain in the shadows. Undetectable. An agent provocateur.

Except for when her own sense of duty failed her.

She wasn't sure exactly what had led her to spare Agent Lazuli's life; she knew what a danger she was, and how uncontrollable to the higher-ups, and understood how critical it was to eliminate her before she could disseminate their secrets any further. Her specialty had long been making her targets feel at ease before eliminating them altogether, and so that was exactly what she'd done. It had worked, and she'd fallen into the jaws of the trap she'd so carefully laid out, hook, line, and sinker. But then…

Rosalind hadn't been able to do it. It came as an immense surprise to Long and Harris, who decided to give her one last chance to make things right. To prove that she didn't need to go the same way as Lazuli. Dead, burned, and forgotten.

It was enough for her to want to throttle Corsica every time he sat down for a break.

At some point they took leave of their allies and ascended the stairs to the upper level; the launch pad was large and open-air, with high, towering walls on all sides interspersed with guard towers. The walls between battlements were notched with breaks in the metal that quite reminded her of arrow slits in medieval castles, though she knew they were likely used for surveillance by long-departed sentinels who used to keep watch over the collection of ships far below.

They were fresh out of marks. No matter how many times she told Corsica to bring the whole damn bag down there with them, he refused, and she soon found herself rooting through the folds and pockets of an enormous duffel on the ground, praying they had just a few more devices to go. Meanwhile, the Frenchman made quick work of activating the beacons, his fingers dancing across his tricorder.

They worked in silence for a while, until they heard the distant crunch of dirt underfoot and sat up, hands drifting towards their weapons.

Rosalind almost reached for her belt, where her phase pistol would've been if she were wearing her Starfleet uniform, and the unconscious impulse rattled her significantly. She shook it off and shoved her hand into the pocket of her leather jacket, thumbing the trigger and listening for any further indication that their cover was about to be blown wide open.

Rather than beat a hasty retreat, Corsica stood slowly and approached the open door which led into the passageway. The sun was now rising, and she knew they didn't have much time to get back to the ship before their absence was detected. Fortunately, they both knew a little something about the internal sensors, and had been able to modify them to suit their needs. If someone in orbit had decided to come planetside, though…

His footsteps were featherlight, his movements careful and measured as she stepped to one side and crouched down, peering into the rapidly dissipating darkness. Rosalind could see him reaching for his flash blinder, and quickly caught onto the plan, locating the hypospray tucked into her boot.

It all happened way too fast; first he wasn't there, then he was, seizing Corsica by the lapel and pinning him against the wall, pressing the barrel of his pistol into his jugular. He cursed and made a mad grab for his face, perhaps to gouge out his eyes or break his nose, but his opponent was much too fast, delivering a series of punches to his solar plexus that thoroughly stole every bit of breath from his lungs. Her companion sagged and almost fell, only to be grabbed again and lifted several centimeters off the ground.

"Ensign Pascal," he said calmly, then nodded towards the back end of the room, not taking his eyes off his prey. "Lieutenant Garcia."

That English accent was unmistakable.

Her mind was racing; he seemed to recognize Commander Reed and didn't seem to be the least bit surprised by his appearance, but she was perfectly stunned. The Section had the tendency to not explain the situation fully, to not give out all the details, mostly because they didn't need to. Things were just starting to add up. She clicked the safety off of her pistol and muttered something, a warning perhaps, only to be stopped mid-sentence by the sensation of cold metal being pushed into the back of her skull.

"Drop it," she ordered, and from the speed by which she'd reached them, Rachel could only assume she'd come through the window. Her species was known for their preternatural climbing abilities, so she wouldn't put it past her.

Like most officers in the NX fleet, she'd heard gossip about Reed and Taxa, and while no one had ever seen them acting in accordance with those rumors in public, in her mind, this thoroughly confirmed their association, as well as why the Section believed she was so dangerous.

She didn't hesitate, sinking to her knees and depositing her pistol on the ground, straightening up slowly and showing both her hands. Across the room, Simon was choking and gasping for air, but Reed didn't indicate that he intended to stop.

"Care to explain what you're doing here?"

"That information is classified," Rachel replied evenly, not caring for the smugness in her voice. She heard her rustling around in the bag they'd recently abandoned, but she seemed to find what she was looking for with relative ease.

Alira came away with a handful of tiny beacons, each blinking steadily green, rounded on one end and flattened on the other side. She instantly recognized them as portable tracking devices, perfectly undetectable to sensors and indiscrete to visual inspection. A few of her more demeaning early assignments involved locating targets in bars and transport stations and open-air markets, getting close enough to place a signal on them before vanishing into the night. Later, once she received the all clear from the higher-ups, she'd return to finish the job, doing whatever it took to get them into a secluded area before putting out the lights entirely.

Now, it seemed, they had other ideas on how to put them to good use.

"Don't tell me. Does this have something to do with the dozens of Tarali-class transports that are going to be smuggled out of this launch pad once the Coalition talks are over?" Reed tightened his grip on Simon's collar and lifted him up even higher, the glint in his eye perfectly devilish. Rachel recognized that look and knew, immediately, that he was enjoying this.

For all intents and purposes, he was no better than they were.

Alira didn't give them the chance to respond. With one hand, she grabbed her shoulder and forced her to turn around. "That would seem to imply that the Section is working with the Andorians, who are working with the Romulans, just to place tracking devices on ships they're using just to kill more United Earth citizens. Sounds like high treason to me. Don't you agree?"

Wisely, she kept her mouth shut.

Her gaze was on her, dark and impenetrable, and she was studying her brow, right where the shiner she'd given her back on Barisa VI was starting to heal. She reached up to brush a lock of hair out of her face with her weapon, then tightened her fingers around the barrel, enough to where Rachel could tell that a pistol whip was imminent.

"Answer me, or I'll make the other side match!" Her intensity was frightening, but she was determined not to yield.

Pascal, however, was much less resilient. He started to speak, only for it to come out in a series of short, staggered gasps, before Reed released him and sent him tumbling to the ground. There, he wheezed and clutched his throat, attempting to gain some modicum of composure.

"I was right not to trust you from the beginning. You're a rat!"

She was praying silently, desperately willing him to keep his mouth shut, but it seemed that the powers that be had all but abandoned her at that moment.

"The freighters we lost have all been collateral damage, insignificant to the losses we'd see if we let the threat run around unchecked. We know exactly where they're going, where they've been, what kinds of ships they rendezvous with. One had even made it all the way back to the Romulan homeworld. Believe it or not, this could help us turn the tides of the war!"

"So you made a deal with the devil? Do you have a single shred of honor left? A sense of right and wrong?"

"Do you?" Simon challenged, rising onto his knees with some difficulty. "If you did, you wouldn't be threatening to bring the entire operation down."

"This entire operation is crooked and evil. They ask for whatever you can spare, then take everything. You don't understand. The only way out of this is death!"

"Then I suggest you put yourself out of your own misery now. It'll spare me the work of having to do it myself." This time, his remark was met by a swift kick to the gut, and he doubled over, hissing and seething in pain.

Rachel heard it before she saw it. From somewhere far below, people were shouting and screaming, and she immediately knew it was over.

For Captain Namara, at least.

"So you've caught us," she began, attracting their attention. Her heart was racing, but she was trying her best to hide the accompanying shake in her voice. "But you're not going to do a thing about it."

"And why not?"

"Because, my dear Agent Lazuli, how far do you think that would run down the clock on the mission your little boyfriend was just assigned?"

They both knew she was right, and the stunned look on her face told her everything she needed to know.

---

Minutes earlier, Shran dashed through rows and rows of decommissioned and crumbling transports, trying his best to keep his head down, his antennae whirling around furiously as he attempted to root out any source of movement or sound.

Mr. Reed seemed to take her story in stride, though she did leave a few details out for the sake of time, his expression a curious mixture of horror and relief. He said something about being glad they could trust Shran above all, then reached out and brushed her hand with his own with the lightest of touches, nearly imperceptible and impossibly quick, so much so that he almost missed it.

When they locked eyes again, it was as if he'd been struck by lightning. He was granted with a greater understanding of the man and his motives, and if he had learned anything from his time with Jhamel, it was that nothing could stand in the way of love, not even tragedy, the enemy, or threats of certain death.

What's more, he hadn't been very surprised to hear why he was here or that he now needed their help; Shran had reason to suspect Namara for some time, ever since the incident that had killed General Taxa. Reed mentioned more than once that they really ought to return to the ship, but in the end, he supposed he felt some shred of loyalty towards their cause, regardless of how many headaches the Imperial Guard caused the pink-skins on any given day.

They ran through the ruins at a breakneck speed, not even checking their surroundings, simply forging into the unknown. Shran, knowing full well the troops stationed planetside were likely on Namara's side, called for reinforcements from the Undali, which would either arrive just on time or too late.

He heard some rumblings that there were four more human biosigns on the launch pad, and his companions quickly branched off from him, promising to investigate and catch up with him. Shran wanted to object, but knew he likely didn't have a choice. His stubborn pride told him that it would be fine, that he didn't need backup for the time being, but now, he wasn't quite sure.

In a matter of minutes, he'd managed to traverse half of the wide open space, pausing intermittently to scan the vessels around them. Sure enough, they were Tarali-class transports, resurrected from the ashes and restored from a distant time when his people had fought tooth and nail against the Vulcans for control over Weytahn. The planet was inhospitable and had nothing to offer except strategic significance, but he felt an irrational sense of pride at having conquered it, knowing that this time they'd managed to best them on the battlefield and at the negotiations table.

Sure, the Vulcans were now technically their allies. That didn't mean he had to like them.

The scuffle of boots of the dirt startled him, and he turned just in time to see a shape dart behind a nearby vessel. Slowly, he crept forward, counting his steps in time with his breathing, until he was able to discern their location from a wayward shadow upon the ground.

He whirled around the corner and came face to face with none other than Captain Hernandez, a commanding officer just as experienced as the Commodore, with an added bit of audaciousness and self-assurance that forced him to swallow his trepidation every single time the Columbia came up on long range sensors. She was joined by Captain Pritchard of the Cochrane, who seemed far too trigger happy for her own good; before she could make sense of what she was seeing, she fired, and Erika leaned into her weapon, pushing it to one side and causing the blast to disappear into the ground.

"Commander Shran, what are you-"

"I don't-"

"Look here," he insisted quietly, knowing well enough that they'd likely just given away their position to the enemy. "I'm fairly sure we're here for the same reason. If we move now, we can take Namara down before these transports get off the ground. Are you with me or not?"

Erika and Laura seemed to ponder this for a moment, wide-eyed, rapidly cycling through contingencies and ramifications. In the grand scheme of things, a plot to supply the enemy with ships that would only then turn around and target the alliance would be a lot more damaging to all of them than the consequences of an early-morning run in with a former enemy, and so they acquiesced, and followed him into the shadows, ears perked up for the first sign of trouble.

Shran thought about informing them of the strategic positioning of Reed and Taxa in the guard towers, but thought better of it. Something in his gut told him to stay silent, and he obeyed it, because it was the single impulse that had always kept him alive.

At least, up until this point.

Each row of ships was the same, a dozen wide, the hatches shut tight and lights dimmed. They'd nearly reached the far wall before they finally heard it, the barest hint of a whine from an impulse reactor, and split up, opting to approach the vessel from three sides.

Laura didn't want to believe that an ally would be able to do this to the Coalition, knowing full well that their collaboration with the Romulans would only serve to harm the species they called friends. She supposed that money could be a powerful motivator for some; while the populace of United Earth had almost entirely evolved away from the concept of currency, she knew that wasn't the same for other cultures, and the idea that such tremendous evil could be summoned by a few handfuls of credits was truly horrifying to her.

That wasn't to say that she didn't want justice for the crew of the Kingston. For weeks she'd thought about nothing else, from the moment she boarded the broken hull of the freighter and seen the crew hunched over in decompressed chambers with their lungs collapsed and regurgitated or else sprawled out in the corridors covered in their own blood, she felt the profound sense to find out who was responsible, at least indirectly, and make things right no matter what.

No matter how many tenuous states of peace she needed to challenge along the way.

She found herself praying that this wasn't going to impact the signing of the charter, which at that point was only four hours away. She hoped that the corruption stopped absolutely with Namara, and the rest of the delegation knew nothing of it, because she knew that the war definitely couldn't be won without the cooperation of their allies.

Shran was the first through the doorway; when there was no noise, no shouts or calls or weapons fire, she faltered slightly, making eye contact with Erika across the way. She found herself leaning on her in situations like this; while she knew the basics of command, her instincts were not yet sharpened by experience, though she supposed there was no better way to learn than trial by fire.

They soon followed him, descending into the receiving chamber of the transport, which was curiously darkened and cramped, with low ceilings and even tighter corridors. They almost had to stand in a single file line, but no amount of shielding could hide the identity of the commander of the Imperial Guard's offensive fleet sitting in the pilot's seat with her particle rifle cocked, looking perfectly innocuous as though it was just another morning in the beta quadrant.

Their ringleader, as usual, wasn't wasting any time. "Why have you done this?"

"Commander, you must understand-"

"No!" He cried, taking a step closer. "You've undermined my career for years. You tried to have me killed to keep us out of the Coalition, and now you're working with the enemy. Why?"

She held up her other hand to placate him, looking at them like they were petulant children, a target of frustration. Most curiously, perhaps, was her expression, nearly perfectly neutral, as though she had everything under control.

"These pink-skins will only drag us down. We can do this on our own, and I'm not the only one who thinks that. The Imperial Council was on my side. They almost withdrew us from these talks entirely."

"And why didn't they?"

"Everything changed when those Denobulans from the alternate timeline attempted to destroy us. The alliance came to our aid, even when it was purely an Andorian problem. They said we need contingencies, to be able to protect our own should our fleet be targeted and slaughtered out in open space."

"And how long have you been betraying us?" Shran roared. After a moment of silence, he gestured back towards the two captains. "Surely you can't think you'll get away with it after this. I've seen your correspondence. It took me and my communications officer months to decrypt them, and I intend to turn it all over to these two. Say what you want about the pink-skins, but they are persistent."

Neither could deny that. As they watched, Namara stood and began to back up towards the hatch, not turning away from them for a second. Erika could tell she was plotting an escape, and clicked the safety off her pistol.

She subverted the question entirely. "You do not understand. With the money they've given us, we can afford to build an entirely new fleet. If I was ever found out, I planned to pin it all on you, and no one would ever be the wiser."

"Who are you working for?" The fortitude in her own voice surprised Laura, and she clamped down on her fear, forcing it out in a sneer.

"I only know their names. Solan, for one, and his superior officer, Valdore. They agreed not to touch Andoria when the invasion begins."

"What invasion?" Shran demanded, and when she didn't respond, he surged forward, pressing his rifle into her stomach. "Tell me!"

An uneasy silence descended over the chamber, and the very air seemed to vibrate around them, so much so every hair on the back of her neck stood up.

"It begins at Galorndon Core," she said ominously, then took a step back. Laura could see her take a deep breath, as if to steady herself. "Although it's a pity you won't be around to fight in it."

The moment her finger tensed over the trigger, Laura fired, and she immediately shuddered, reaching up to clutch her wound. Shran quickly disarmed her, and she fired again for good measure, watching as she fell backwards into the dirt, her limbs sprawled out at unnatural angles, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she struggled to breathe.

Laura pushed past him and back into the early morning air, suddenly horrified at what she'd done. She thought she might have felt Erika at her side, stroking her arm and telling her it was all over, that she'd finally done it, that she'd found her culprit at last, but it was all lost in the ensuing storm of emotion.

A second later, they found themselves surrounded by soldiers on the Imperial Guard, but she scarcely reacted as Shran moved around them, shouting out orders and calling them to action.

A flash of light sliced through the darkness, and she looked up, finally being able to tear her eyes away from the dying woman before her.

With deliverance, with hope and with diversion, Laura realized the sun was rising.

---

A mere thirty minutes before the morning's introductory remarks, Mareth found his sister in the armory on the Maelstrom, perched on a stool with her elbows propped on her knees.

Her focus was on the display panel before her, which was anchored in turn to a great concrete mausoleum at the far corner of the room. She didn't even look up as he approached her, and from a distance, he could see rows and rows of nuclear warheads printed on the screen, all locked and loaded and ready to launch at a moment's notice.

"Using work to ignore your feelings again?"

Alira seemingly deflated and retreated within herself, rubbing her eyes with both hands. He knew she was nearing her yearly sleep cycle, but nothing could have prepared him for the sheer weariness adorning her features when she turned to address him.

"You know me best, don't you?"

"Sometimes I wonder," Mareth admitted, dragging another stool over to sit next to her. He tried his best to maintain a respectful distance, but she still moved away from him, propping an elbow on the panel behind her and leaning into it. "Crazy about Captain Namara, isn't it?"

The official story, as Shran had explained to the gathered delegates over subspace just an hour ago, was that he'd caught his commanding officer in an active plot to supply the enemy with retired Tarali-class transports for monetary gain, under the agreement that they'd primarily use them to target United Earth vessels. It was a stunning act of treason, a crime for which the only punishment on Andoria was death by firing squad.

He had been backed up with Captains Pritchard and Hernandez, who looked just as shocked as the rest of them. They still resolved to forge on with the signing of the charter, and even assist as much as they could in the prosecution, if only to lock their rattled allies into a legally binding agreement more than anything. There was no mention of them in his report, and for that she was grateful.

She understood that she and Shran were now cosmically bound together by circumstance; they didn't have to like each other, but she now knew she could count on him for anything, and vice versa. It was a stunning departure from the way she'd felt about him just days before.

"I suppose Shran's going to be promoted to captain of their offensive fleet now."

"It's a win-win. I must say, I admire the Andorians' cunning."

"Remind you of someone you know?" Her tone had affected a note of hostility. He sighed and knit his fingers together, pressing them into his lap. "How long did you know about father?"

So she had spoken to Shran after all. Mareth was immediately overwhelmed by shame, by regret, by embarrassment at getting caught, but also a tremendous sadness. "A couple of years. When you contacted me last night, I knew you'd finally put the pieces together. There was no use hiding it anymore."

"I don't understand. Why didn't you tell me?" It could have averted several deeply traumatizing missions and murders committed by her hand.

"I didn't know if it could change the way you felt about him. You were always his favorite, and he was your hero." He exhaled raggedly, and could take it no longer, reaching out to her, but stopping a fraction of a centimeter short. The memories of them all together as a family were all too precious, and sadly fading with time. "They've been using the both of us, all because they were too afraid to admit they made a mistake."

"It was a deadly mistake. And Vesena..."

"I detest her just as much as you do. It's clear to me that she loves power a lot more than she ever loved father." Mareth pulled back, and her gaze followed him, until she was practically staring him down.

"How does someone become that hateful?"

"You tell me," he whispered, and she realized just how hypocritical that question had sounded.

"That part of my life is over," Alira insisted. He had no way of knowing of her involvement with the Section, and for that she was grateful. Following their return to the Enterprise, they'd resolved to brainstorm ways to get out of their present situation, but the longer she thought about it, the more sure she became there was really only one way.

"I'm glad you've found your happiness." There was so much sincerity in his voice that it was nearly heartbreaking. "And you've got a good man. I recommend you do whatever it takes to keep him."

"Does that mean you talked during the afternoon session?"

He smiled and nodded, giving nothing away. "You know what mother would say if she were here…"

"I know exactly what she'd say." Suddenly, her eyes were brimming with tears, but she smiled through it, and it struck him for perhaps the thousandth time just how much she looked like her. The three of them had all inherited their height and stature from their father, but in the face, and especially in the eyes, Alira was a spitting image.

She was gone now, the victim of a senseless act of sacrifice perpetuated by an uncaring ally, but for all intents and purposes, she was still there, and that was what really mattered.

"Then you know what you have to do." He slapped his hand down on the console roughly. "And I know what I have to do. I'm running for political office."

"Father always knew you'd wind up there. What's your poison?"

"Supreme Council, straight for the top." At her raised eyebrows, he pressed on: "They won't be able to hide from us. The only reason I know what happened is that I went snooping where I didn't belong. I'm going to present them with the facts, my service record, and strongly imply that it's something they owe us both."

"Then we'll have traction."

"We'll have each other," he corrected her. "And we always will."

She knew they also had Tullis, his identical twin, who was a captain on the police force in the capitol. He doubted the likes of Ambassador Lexora or Chancellor Zanthras could make a move without one of them knowing. The thought was comforting.

Mareth was on his feet before she could get a word in edgewise. "We've only got a few minutes until the signing starts. I'll expect to see you there."

"Lieutenant Garcia from the Cochrane is managing security today."

"Doesn't matter. This is sure to be a historic occasion." He stopped halfway across the room and turned to her, offering her a small, sad smile. "Listen. Father was complicated. His life may have been cut short, but he did live it to the fullest extent. He did whatever it took to serve his people, but when it really counted, his people chose not to serve him."

She set her jaw and nodded slowly, and a look went up between them, indicative of things to come.

---

The signing of the charter for the wartime Coalition of Planets took place in the wardroom of the Vulcan flagship Varan in the mid-morning of September 3, 2156.

After a year and a half of negotiating, of haggling and agonizing over details, no one was more relieved to put pen to paper than Prime Minister Nathan Samuels.

He'd originally put a timeline of six weeks on the project, which he now knew was an unrealistic goal, mostly influenced by their recent defeat of Terra Prime and bolstered by the inspiring words of then-Captain Archer. Since then, they'd been through damn near everything the universe could possibly throw at them, invasions and attacks abroad and intelligence threats from all angles.

The powers that be had even attempted to throw a wrench in their plans at the last second, revealing the duplicity of Captain Namara to the entire Imperial Guard and two of his most trusted COs. He'd already been awake when he received the call, pacing the length of his guest quarters on the Cochrane and reciting his speech over and over, and he'd temporarily feared that this meant that the agreement would be nullified altogether.

Surprisingly, the Andorians were determined to push forward. If General Karashi and Chancellor Sindas had any inkling of her treachery, they did well to hide it, and agreed to cooperate with the investigation, to hold Namara in custody until she recovered enough to answer questions from the attorneys for the United Earth Council and the High Command.

Pritchard and Hernandez were another story; Nathan could tell they were terrified of being formally reprimanded for the incident, but for once, he, Gardner, and Archer had agreed that their actions were justified and wholly necessary to defend the fragile state of peace between them and the other delegates. Laura had almost fallen to her knees with gratitude, and had taken his hand in a moment of impropriety, thanking him profusely for his kindness, for his generosity, and his devotion to the people on the front lines.

Samuels wasn't completely blameless from the forces that had tried their hardest to prevent the formation of this alliance; years ago, he was a part of Terra Prime, and for some time harbored unproductive anger over his father's death, which had been caused due to the inattention of a Denobulan pilot. He was young and bitter and foolish, and he wore those wasted years like a badge of dishonor. When confronted by Archer, he owned up to it, and spent countless months attempting to prove that he was a changed man. That his priorities now lined up unequivocally with those of Starfleet.

Now, watching the delegates sign the charter one by one, he felt vindicated. Absolved. For the first time in so many months, he felt hopeful.

There were multiple copies, one for each member world, and he was already anticipating returning to San Francisco and seeing it hung in a place of honor on the wall of the council chambers for all to see. He quietly marveled at the complexity of their allies' written alphabets, the vertical swirls and loops of the Vulcans, the Andorians' horizontal lines and squiggles that quite reminded him of fishbones, and the Tellarites' distinctly jagged and separated lettering that nearly took up an entire row on the parchment.

The Denobulans were next, and he watched as their Chancellor signed without hesitation, followed by their Ambassador, who had to take in a deep breath and steel herself before doing so. As they repeated the gesture with the other copies, the Supreme Commander glanced across the table, and he followed her line of sight all the way to the Maelstrom's tactical officer, who returned her gaze with impossible tenacity.

The papers were soon passed to the Coridanites, and then made their way back to him one by one, after each being checked individually for discrepancies by the legal counsels for each member world. The sheets themselves only contained the preamble for the charter; the actual body of the text was contained in over a dozen PADDs, making up some three thousand pages, detailing their agreement in painstaking and unambiguous language. He could see these piles now, arranged in careful rows by four of the fleet's communications officers, whom he trusted unequivocally.

Nathan now felt the eyes of the room, of humanity, and history at large upon him. He inhaled slowly, then afforded the assembled delegates an easy-going smile. The Commodore and the Admiral stood on either side of him, and he could feel the significance of the moment heavy on his shoulders, passed down to him from men in his position since time immemorial.

"We are six months and a day removed from the battle which changed everything." It wasn't the most optimistic start to his speech, but he would be remiss without acknowledging the Solnarans, whose deaths had all been noble, whether they were aware of it or not. "Since then, this interstellar community has banded together in ways I never would have thought possible. We each come from different worlds, have different values and principles, but one priority stands out about all: the preservation of our own."

Nathan knew this rang true for even the two delegations which were now declared officially neutral, but they still averted their gazes, perhaps out of guilt.

He hoped this was the case.

"When challenged, we have two choices. We may retreat within ourselves and return to our most base instincts, forsaking our neighbors and allies in their time of need, or we can choose to act as one." Beside him, the Commodore stirred, and he knew he'd struck a nerve. "Moving forward, we cannot take shortcuts on the path to triumph. We will not allow desperation to destroy our moral authority."

Shran's reaction was swift and visceral, but he hid it well behind a grimace.

"We must be torchbearers, casting the light, so that we may illuminate the past towards everlasting peace. One day, when this conflict is over and the flame of war is extinguished, let us reconvene to discuss a new kind of federation, one founded on unity and collaboration, one in which we are free to explore and discover and realize the wonders of the universe anew." He allowed the chatter of UTs all around him to finish before he pressed on. "May history look down favorably upon the Coalition of Planets, and may the stars light the way to our inevitable victory."

There was a moment of pause, then the room erupted in a mixture of applause, cheers, and shouts. Encouraged by this reaction, Samuels bent down to inscribe the last signature upon each copy of the charter, effectively sealing their fate, come what may.

---

Hours later, Malcolm and Alira found themselves outside the Captain's quarters, trying and failing to convince themselves and one another that this wasn't the best idea, that it could only end in disaster, that this line of action would result in a court martial or imprisonment or worse.

He knew they couldn't linger for too long; soon enough, one of their colleagues would wander by and blow their cover, and try as he might, he couldn't wait a single second longer. His hand shot out and hit the chime, and from within, they heard all conversation stop.

It seemed like an eternity and then some before someone answered the door. She was shaking and having a hard time hiding it, but her hand found his, intertwining their fingers together and squeezing for a fraction of a second before releasing. It was the end, but also the beginning, and she could only hope their candor, after so long of keeping everyone in the dark, would be appreciated.

Finally, the hatch slid open, revealing none other than Captain T'Pol, still in uniform, holding a wine glass in her hands. She took one look at the two of them and set it aside, crossing her arms in an attempt to appear nonchalant. Apprehension was coming off the two of them in waves, and she could sense it.

Jonathan was standing only a few meters away, just out of view in the bathroom. He was already dressed for bed, and had reacted instantly at the sound of the bell, as determined as ever to keep their relationship a secret from the crew.

Alira opened her mouth to say something, but found herself shocked into silence. Every nerve ending, every muscle, every fiber of her being was telling her to abort the mission, but he was determined not to let her out of what they'd agreed upon.

"Can we come in?" Malcolm's question came at a surprise to her, and she faltered momentarily. Jonathan soon caught onto the deep affectation in his voice and came around the corner, effectively blowing their cover.

"T'Pol," he said softly, mostly out of encouragement but also as a warning.

She looked back at him, then towards them once again, and her expression fell precipitously. It slid from indifference to fear to acceptance, then stepped she aside, ushering them into her quarters.

Behind them, the hatch slid closed, descending the corridor into silence.

---

By the time the charter was signed and the afternoon's subspace conferences with the rest of the High Command concluded, Minister T'Pau was thoroughly exhausted.

She returned to her guest quarters determined to sneak in a bit of meditation before dinner, but everyone on board the Varan was seemingly determined to attract her attention, to ask her a question about the charter or else compliment her ingenuity. If there was one thing she missed about her time with the Syrrannites, it was living under the radar, and recently she found herself wishing she could walk into a room without it feeling like a state visit.

The armed bodyguards lingering five paces behind her wherever she went was another issue entirely; shortly before they departed Vulcan, they became apprised of a plot on her life, perhaps the thirtieth of its kind in so many months. Kuvak and Soval were concerned, but she insisted on going about her daily routine. After all, she was a good shot. She could defend herself readily in life-or-death situations, and had before. The hybrid plot, and all the threats therein from sleeper agents or old loyalists to V'Las, was nothing new.

Her escorts were first through the door, checking her chambers for explosives or poisons or unwanted guests. Their inspection seemed to go on for hours, but when they at last emerged, she didn't hesitate, affording them a slight nod and disappearing into her bedroom.

The moment she was alone, the mask came crashing down. T'Pau's emotions had always been close the surface, and she was under constant stress to maintain her composure, especially under situations which warranted her anger or frustration. She looked down towards the deck plating, rubbing the back of her neck, then rolled it from side to side, working out the kinks she found there.

Her heavy outer robe came off, followed by her boots. She sauntered into the bathroom towards the sink, which was a luxury back home, where even the showers were sonic. Already, she was looking forward to washing the stress and grime of the day from her face.

The moment she bent down to move her hands under the stream, her keen hearing picked up a sound from somewhere in the room behind her. She startled inwardly, but concealed it, honing in on the noise and separating it from the low hum of the engines far below her.

Slowly, as if to steady herself, she placed a hand on her hip, trailing downwards until she was able to slip inside the deep pocket in the folds of her skirt. Her particle weapon was there, ready and raring to go, and she held her breath, feeling the soft thud of muffled footsteps across the floor.

Without hesitation, she turned on her heels and fired, finding her quarters filled with no less than a trio of hybrid marauders. Their faces were covered, but she knew who they were, and exactly why they were there.

The volley reached her instantly, and she dodged to one side, punching the door controls and causing the hatch to close tightly behind her. A blast severed the link to the opposite side of the wall, and she reached for her communicator, only to realize that she'd left it behind in her robe. With her superior strength, she wrenched the towel bar off the wall and held it aloft, laying in wait as her would-be kidnappers whaled away at the solid duritanium separating them.

She couldn't hold it in anymore. T'Pau turned towards the wall and screamed for help with all her might, hoping to alert her guards through what were likely soundproof bulkheads. She waited for help, but it never arrived, and when they at last blasted through the door, she fought tooth and nail with every last bastion of her strength, until it faded away and she was forced to yield to their onslaught.

End of Episode Twenty-Two

---

Next time on Enterprise…

Episode Twenty-Three: The Hybrid Plot

T'Pol embarks on a rescue mission with some old colleagues from the Ministry of Security. The fleet prepares to square off with the enemy at Galorndon Core.