§ 3 §
T'Pol raised her hand to the chime and pressed. Her hand was steady, she noticed, and if it weren't an emotion she would have admitted to herself that she was pleased. Meditation had helped her; the deep, advanced level she had practised after… a sudden shiver shook her as the image of her baby flashed through her mind. A knot formed in her throat. Fortunately, before she could lose some of the control she was working so hard to keep these days, Archer's voice rang out, anchoring her to the present.
"Come in."
The door swished open. "Captain," T'Pol simply said, entering. She latched her hands behind her back and waited.
Archer slowly turned from the porthole to face her.
Meeting his sympathetic green eyes T'Pol had to make another effort to control her features, threatened by one of those swelling waves which lately seemed to surge within her, unbidden, at the most unexpected times. This man, even more than Trip, for some reason appeared able to provoke them. It was as if his gaze could expose every secret of her soul. But perhaps not only of hers. Captain Archer led his ship and crew with his heart as much as with his intelligence. Nothing, in the emotional sphere, went by him unnoticed.
"T'Pol," he said. "I just spoke to Admiral Gardner." Concern rang clear in his voice, and she knew this time it wasn't for her well-being.
"Captain?" she repeated, shaping the word into a question.
He took a step towards her. "I need you to dig through the Vulcan database and pull out everything you can find on a species called Ferendellians. According to Vulcan Intelligence, they might be interested in the W6 blueprints."
T'Pol nodded. "Their name is familiar. Will there be anything else?" she enquired softly, when Archer kept his gaze on her.
He looked about to say something, but then thought better of it, for with a slight frown he replied, "No, that will be all, thank you. Do it quickly, though. We need to inform Trip and Malcolm."
Concern snaked through her. She nodded again and left, wondering how it was possible that her life had got to this point. She had been assigned to a Human vessel to show them the ways of logic, and here she was now, four years later, almost having to re-learn the Vulcan ways herself. What had happened was entirely her fault. She had wanted to explore emotions, had wandered too close to the flame and had ended up being burnt. What was worse, she had ended up hurting another person in the process. It was better for both their sake if she made every effort to return to be the T'Pol she had once been.
They walked for about fifteen minutes in silence, Malcolm busy trying to memorise as much as he could of their surroundings while he watched out for anything that might seem out of the ordinary. Beside him, Trip too was scanning the environment, but Malcolm could tell his friend's curious nature had asserted itself and the man was looking around less with an investigative than tourist-like eye. Despite their mission, Malcolm was almost glad about it. Perhaps - he willed himself to hope - Trip would slowly find himself again.
They had switched on their U.T.s to pick up bits of conversation as they walked along the straight boulevard – judging by the hellish traffic on it one of the city's arteries – heading towards the northern suburbs. The devices, though, hadn't been put to too much use so far. People in this city didn't seem to like socialising. From what they could tell, Troxians mostly kept to themselves, hurrying along their way, absorbed in their occupations. Well, in a way it wasn't surprising: if what the Vulcan database said about them was true, people here minded their own business. In fact Trip and Malcolm hadn't been spared a glance, for which, actually, Malcolm was quite grateful.
Another ten minutes went by, and it became obvious that they had left the city centre, for the tall if rather minimalist buildings had – a little abruptly, by Earth standards – been replaced by smaller structures, and the traffic was less frantic. It was a good thing that the fast hovering vehicles used on this planet didn't make much noise, for there certainly were a lot of them around.
"Not what I'd call an upmarket part of town," Malcolm commented under his breath, taking in the shabby shops and businesses, and unkempt streets. He passed a hand through his hair, combing back a few damp strands. The very fine rain was still falling, and despite their somewhat waterproof jackets, they were both getting wet. At least it wasn't cold.
"A real dump."
Trip, as usual, hadn't minced his words.
Buildings were built close to each other. Very narrow, mostly deserted alleys fanned out from the main, larger street they were walking on. People all seemed to keep to this road, as if afraid to stray from it. As a matter of fact - Malcolm cast an eye into a dirty and stinking lane on their right - he wouldn't want to have to go very far into any of the side streets. They all looked like perfect sets for a Jack-the-ripper type murder.
"Let me gaze into your eyes, young man, and things will change."
Malcolm jerked his head back to see a thin, strange-looking man walking alongside Trip. He was of an age he'd have a difficult time guessing – although he didn't look old – and wore a dark green tunic-like jacket and a short cylindrical hat worn low on his forehead. Malcolm's heart jumped in his chest, and he silently cursed. Where in the bloody hell had the bloke come from?
He quickly stepped to the other side, leaving the man in the middle. "Thank you, Sir," he said in a low, determined voice, "But we really have no time for this at the moment. We are running late."
"Business can wait – a soul might not have that luxury." The man turned his skinny, angular face to Malcolm, fixing piercing eyes on him. They were a strange reddish-brown colour, not unattractive, nor unkind. He tilted his head and the hint of a smile appeared on his face.
"Ah, an intriguing blue-grey," he said mysteriously. "Yes, indeed…" He turned back to the other side. "But your eyes…" He peered into Trip's, who looked back with a frown. "Yours are most interesting. They have the glint – or rather, they have lost it."
"Sir," Malcolm repeated darkly, restraining himself from grabbing the man by an arm. "I said we have no time for this." His hand went to the comforting bulge under his jumper.
The man ignored him. He had locked gaze with Trip, and no one else might as well have existed for him – actually, for either man, Malcolm realised with a start.
"Things will change, sorrows will pass. Let me gaze into your eyes," the soothing voice repeated.
Malcolm didn't hesitate. He grabbed the man's arm and jerked him physically away from Trip.
The Engineer stopped. A confused expression came over his face. "Go away," he told the guy after what looked like a moment of indecision.
The man studied him, his face still shaped, unexpectedly, into a kind expression. "Your heart needs healing: why will you not allow it to happen?"
"Let's go," Malcolm urged under his breath, touching Trip's elbow. They started walking away.
"The abyss will swallow you, young man. It's closing up on you; I saw it in your eyes…"
Malcolm felt his friend tense up beside him and, glancing, saw a pained expression come over his face. Trip stopped and turned, forcing Malcolm to do the same.
A smile that could only be described as sad appeared on the stranger's lips. "You would be very unwise to let this occasion go by," he said gently.
"Commander…" Malcolm murmured for Trip's ears only, touching his elbow again, but Trip shrugged him off and took a couple of steps back, towards the strange character.
"What would you know about anyone's heart?" he enquired darkly.
"You are not from here, are you?" the man replied with narrowed eyes. "Or you wouldn't ask."
Malcolm felt his muscles clench. He didn't like the question; this was getting dangerous. Even assuming the strange person was only a trickster, they couldn't afford to blow their cover and reveal the fact that they were alien to this place. Before Trip could reply, he stepped in front of him. He put a hand on the man's chest and pushed him against a wall, holding him there.
"We only want you to leave us in peace," he said dangerously, casting a look around. People went by, minding their own business, as if nothing were happening.
"All right," the man replied, raising his eyebrows. "It's your loss," he added, shifting his gaze and refocusing it behind Malcolm.
Malcolm felt a hand on his shoulder pulling back firmly. "Enough," Trip said in his command tone. "Let him go."
Releasing his prisoner, Malcolm turned to cold blue eyes. For a couple of seconds he and Trip just stared at each other; then the man's movement, as he stepped out of the uncomfortable spot, broke the moment. They both turned to him, and he gave them a shallow bow, looking surprisingly unperturbed.
"I wish you to find the peace you need," he murmured, looking Trip straight in the eye. Then he turned and walked away.
Malcolm swallowed what little saliva he could find in his mouth. It had all happened in no more than a minute, a minute and a half, and adrenaline was still coursing freely through his veins. He glanced at Trip, and his friend met his gaze briefly; too briefly for Malcolm to read the many layers of emotion in it.
"Let's move," Trip muttered. "We still have a long way to go." He started walking.
Malcolm heaved a calming breath, which did nothing to undo the knot in his gut, and hurried after him.
Clapton filled his glass again and turned it in his hands, peering peevishly at the colourless liquid inside. "It's almost as innocuous as water," he complained to the man sitting in front of him.
"I, for one, am grateful for it," the man muttered. "I know you too well to want a bottle of alcohol anywhere near you. I want you awake when our contact arrives."
"You know, Sullivan," Clapton commented sarcastically, wiping a sleeve across his sweaty brow, "You're as dull as a grey November day. No alcohol, no women, no good food. No excitement in your life."
Sullivan's dark eyes didn't stop scanning the locale as he replied, unruffled, "Plenty of it, on the contrary. I was the one who got us this deal, remember? And my lifestyle may be a bit on the restrained side but look where yours got you: you're so overweight that just sitting still has you sweating like a pig."
Clapton's jaw jutted out giving the man a murderous expression. "My looks are a lot healthier than yours," he retorted venomously. "At least I don't look like the x-ray of myself." After a pause he continued, in a more subdued voice, "I hope this deal of yours comes through, because I already have a few plans on how to use my part of the gold."
"Yes, I do hope that too." Sullivan turned to the fat and rubicund face before him. "So our brief but still unpleasant partnership can be dissolved."
A wicked smile appeared on Clapton's lips. "Well, too bad you didn't know anyone else who could get you a ride to this God-forsaken planet, then, huh?"
"Yes, it was quite unfortunate."
Sullivan leaned back in his chair. The club was emptying. They had come to it for three days, and by now he knew that people flocked out after a certain hour. He bit his lip, trying to quench his impatience. He was sure the deal would come through. It was only a matter of waiting. Indeed he was eager; especially for the moment he could give Clapton his part.
"Short and sturdy; golden complexion; straight, blondish hair; dark green eyes; tattoo-like designs on the side of their noses," T'Pol recited. "Ferendellians are said to be physically strong, quite skilled in hand-to-hand combat," she continued in a voice she kept low to hide the barely perceptible waver of concern in it. "All this information is not first-hand, Captain. Vulcans never made contact with this species."
"It will have to do. Thank you. I will contact Trip and Malcolm right away."
Archer nodded his dismissal, but T'Pol didn't move.
Whatever bond there had been between herself and Trip was no longer there; their daughter's death had affected them both deeply but in ways that were too different, and which had driven them apart. However, T'Pol wanted him to come back to the ship unharmed. Lieutenant Reed too, for that matter. She had read all there had been in the Vulcan database on the Ferendellians, including the very last footnote. And that, precisely, had contained an interesting piece of information.
"T'Pol?" Archer enquired. "Is there anything else?"
"Yes, Captain, but this is only an unverified rumour: the eyesight of Ferendellians might be severely impaired by darkness. To the point that they are said to turn virtually blind. I believe you ought to mention this to Lieutenant Reed." She schooled her features, which were far too mobile these days. "And to Commander Tucker," she forced herself to add.
"I will," Archer said softly.
The tone of his voice told her that if she stayed here a moment longer he would enquire after her well-being. She appreciated his concern, but didn't want that right now. So she nodded and left, this time without waiting for his dismissal.
TBC