Chapter Three
Morning in Perdition

Major Malcolm Reed left his quarters in a foul mood, striding down the dim corridor with a deadly manner that caused any to cross his path to fervently wish they were elsewhere.

His uniform was as sharply pressed as his manner. The well polished phase pistol at his hip as filled with menace as he was himself. The razor sharp dagger at his left side glinted, deadly as his mood. The medals on his chest gleamed even in the repressed light as much as did his fire of purpose. The Imperial standard, the sword piercing Earth, and the Enterprise patch depicting his ship resting upon the strength of crossed swords were only uniform ensigns on other people, but gave hints of the fierceness of the man himself.

Breakfast was late, and he couldn't delay his arrival on the Bridge. More to the point, he wanted to have an opportunity to talk with the ship's Denobulan doctor later, when his initial duties on the bridge were complete. He had had an idea, late in the night, which he prided himself were absolutely inspired. It was something he was sure the Denobulan, with his taste for experimentation would certainly see the benefit in. Better yet, his practical skills could almost certainly make Reed's inspiration a reality.

x

Up ahead, he saw a man approaching. But this man was looking quite definitely bleary-eyed, and his uniform looked like he had been wearing it for over a day. "You, there," he called sharply.

The taller man stopped, snapping awake, crashing to attention and saluting, a sharp strike with the closed right fist to the chest, then the stiff armed outthrust of that fist. Reed could almost hear the man's thoughts.

"Where are you going?"

"My quarters, sir," he answered, eyes straight ahead, body held at stiff attention.

"Your quarters? It's 0730; why would you be going to your quarters?" Reed asked dangerously, getting up close to the man.

"I've been relieved, sir."

"Relieved? Who in their right mind would relieve you a half hour early?"

"Ensign Dubrowski, sir."

Reed bit his tongue. He most firmly wanted to call this man a liar, charge him with Dereliction of Duty and throw him in the brig, but he had a better idea. "Mister, you will return to your station and fill out your duty along with Dubrowski. Commencing next Gamma shift, both of you are to work double shifts for a week. Maybe in the future you will both remember how to properly relieve a post."

The man continued looking straight ahead, not letting anything at all show in his expression. "Sir." He saluted sharply, turned about face, and marched back to his post.

x

Malcolm Reed kept watching the other walking away, hoping the man would do something, anything, that was short of perfection, but he did not as long as he remained in sight. He and Dubrowski, Reed knew, would spend the next week fuming, at both him and one another, over the result of this one ill-advised kindness.

Reed had no sympathy for either of them. It was just the sort of laxness the lower ranks constantly fell into. It was almost more than Reed could do to stem the tide; but now he was sure he'd found a way.

He tried to return his attention to the pleasant thoughts that had been his moments before. He had been thinking about a divinely inspired plan of how his on-going problems might one day be resolved, and this encounter only fueled that desire.

Contemplating this inspiration almost overcame his annoyance at having to miss breakfast, but only because that loss spoke of the very inefficiency he intended to stamp out aboard this battleship. If his plan worked in reality as it had in his dreams, inefficiency would be a thing of the past. He would never again have to deal with a violation of regulations. Discipline would be perfect, for the lack of it would subject the guilty party to a thing of overwhelming terror.

If it worked as well in reality as it did in his inspiration, it would make floggings and the exertions of physical punishment a thing of the past. Machines would do it all, with the cold, impersonal efficiency possible only to a machine.

That would be a major part of its terror, because mercy and compassion, which sometimes had been known to temper punishments, would be a thing of the past.

It might take some days, but in the end breakfast would never be late again. Discipline would be ultimate. Obedience and efficiency would be the standard of the day.

It would be wonderful!

xxx

Commander Jonathan Archer stepped out of the turbolift onto the bridge, his sharp eyes surveying everything, including how those present turned from their duties and snapped to attention, executing the Imperial salute with perfect precision. Not one of the bridge crew, though having spent the night at their posts, would dare be less than precise.

It was a minute past 0730 and Gamma Shift was in its final half hour, but Archer's duty was to have the bridge ready for the arrival of the Captain.

Even as he stepped onto the Bridge, he felt the tension levels all about him rise in response to his arrival. He was a hard and harsh leader, a perfectionist who was not gentle in the methods he used to gain that perfection from the people under him. His eyes were hard, as was his entire manner. He projected the image of always holding himself in check, holding some seething anger just below the surface, and may the Emperor grant mercy to any who caused that anger to break.

Archer carried himself with the manner of one who knew he outranked everyone aboard save one – and that lack stung. His greatest desire was a Command of his own, but there was one man in the way of that ambition. Ironically, Forrest was one of the few he could call friend. That was the only reason that kept him from moving against the man – for now.

But always, in his dealings with the crew, was the daily knowledge that he was Second in Command, and it was a bitter thing indeed. In one sense, he was over everyone on the ship, but he was still Second. Added to this, the firm conviction that Enterprise should always have been his, that the 'conspiring Admirals' had kept him from the Command he'd had the right to expect, made Archer's life an unhappy one. It was a life of frustrated ambition that he took satisfaction in taking out on the scores of subordinates who served under him, not a dozen of which he would ever turn his back on, even with the backing of his personal guard.

There would be no point in trying to keep anyone from seeing the tightness in his features. It had been ingrained into them over the course of a long career as a soldier of the Empire. Years of striving for hardness of heart and sternness of manner had etched those marks upon his face and engraved them upon his heart. The years of serving aboard this ship in the secondary standing; just one heartbeat, one misstep, from the Command he always believed should have been his, hadn't been kind to his soul.

x

Commander T'Pol was already at her Science station, but this was nothing unusual. She claimed Vulcans needed little rest, but Archer thought she was just trying to curry favor with the Captain. That was why she never left the bridge until well after he did, and was always on duty before he arrived.

Archer had said more than once that he didn't care; that the 'woman' didn't impress him. But the fact was that on a ship where efficiency was noticed, counted strongly in a person's favor and could win advancement beyond one's deserving, he had to take note of appearances as well as reality. She was, after all, fourth in command.

Only Major Reed stands as a buffer between them, and the day Reed makes a move on his position, if it's unsuccessful, Reed will die.

But one of the realities about the Vulcan female - he can hardly bring himself to think of her as a woman, was that he didn't like her. He certainly would never turn his back on her, for as he was a heartbeat - a misstep - from advancement, so was she.

Archer particularly loathed and resented her for her Vulcan calm and stoicism and logic and efficiency and … well, just everything about her. If she wasn't looking for and waiting patiently in that Vulcan way of hers to get his position, it was because her people had forgotten how to make knives, either intellectual or real.

x

"Status?" He didn't bother to keep the impatient irritation from his voice, but she favored him only with a half-upraised eyebrow, almost as if he didn't rate a full one.

"All ship's functions operating at norm. We are three parsecs from the Gamma Eridani Cluster, traveling at Warp 4 on course 187 mark 23. We shall arrive at Gamma Reticuli IV in two hours, twenty seven minutes. The orbiting Space Station has been notified of our arrival and is standing by with supplies for ship's stores. Sensors detect no other ships in the area. Engine efficiency is at 92.7 percent. Environmental systems are optimal. Offensive and defensive systems are at full capacity."

Her businesslike tone was all efficiency, but without inflection. She had provided him with all he needed to know, but had made no effort to do one thing more, not even to modulate her tone. He couldn't fault her for her efficiency, but by her lack of infletion she communicated a contempt that wasn't openly expressed and therefore couldn't be openly challenged. There was no regulation that said an officer had to be pleasant, just good at her job.

And he had to admit, she was good at her job.

The question he had to keep firmly in mind, and to be cautious of, was would she be good at his?

x

He turned away, striding over to the Communications console.

"Any communications from Starfleet Command?" He asked sharply. It was one fraction below a demand, and he strove to get his manner under control. To be aggravated by the Vulcan 'bitch' was one thing. To let how she'd gotten to him be seen was quite another, and was wholly galling indeed.

"No, Commander." The night ensign responded, very carefully screening from his face and tone the fact that, if there had been, the summation the First Officer had just received would have contained that information.

Archer, who knew this too, refrained from consulting the helm or situation board, knowing he had two choices. He could openly show, without speaking the words, that he didn't trust the Vulcan so he would see for himself; or he could accept her summation and sit down and wait for the Captain. Otherwise, for the next twenty five minutes, unless he created some work, there would be nothing for him to do.

He chose to do the former, stepping over to the helm and checking the readings displayed there for himself. They said everything that the Vulcan had reported, but by his body language he made it clear that he regarded her statements as less than satisfactory, as if he had to check everything for himself.

Of course, in doing so, he noticed he made the night helmsman nervous. Too bad. If the man were not performing his job with the efficiency required of him, he would soon be found out. And if he was, he had better grow better nerve if he wanted to survive as a Bridge Officer. If he couldn't handle the job, others were in line seeking the prestige of a station on the Bridge.

x

Keeping his thoughts from showing on his face, he strode to the Command chair and sat down in the luxurious seat. It felt good, as it always did. He particularly looked forward to the day when he would sit here of right, not just until the arrival of his 'friend' and superior.

'Friend'. He wondered if the word had any meaning for someone in his position. He was Commander, First Officer, and his duty was to make certain the ship was running perfectly and that the crew performed their duties in an exemplary manner. Any deviation from that perfection was dealt with, swiftly and harshly, and the corona of that was not going to hurt him.

It didn't matter whether the crew liked him, or if he had any 'friends', just so long as those below him – meaning everyone – performed their duties perfectly. If not, there were measures in place to make certain they did.

A moment later one of those measures presented himself on the Bridge in the person of the Security Chief / Armory Officer. "Major Reed." Archer called sharply, not even looking back toward the man. He kept his eyes on the viewscreen before him, with its display of oncoming stars. In his mind's eye he 'saw' Reed stop on his path to his station and face him.

"Sir?"

"Call up a Tactical Report on Dartmouth Station. Main screen." He settled back, preparing to revieweverything he could about the offensive and defensive capabilities of the establishment. This was ostensibly a simple, routine stopover, one of re-supply only, a rendezvous they had made several times already.

But Archer had gotten as far as he had in the Empire by anticipating the worst and preparing for it. In the unlikely event that this was not going to be a simple, routine matter, he wanted to be ready.

x

Dartmouth Station appeared with its tactical data upon the screen. The familiar lines had a well worn look. The Enterprise had stopped at the facility uncounted numbers of times to take on supplies, so there was nothing about it that was unfamiliar. He had boarded it himself and knew every corridor, every office, every chamber. He could navigate through its interior blindfolded.

But that was not his goal. In fact, the thought of being blindfolded was the furthest thing from his mind. He wondered where the expression had come from, being utterly nonsense for anyone in the Empire; he was certain that if he were ever to allow himself to be so, it would be the last thing he did.

Driving such nonsense from his mind, he settled his attention to the external view and schematic of the station that was their destination. It was a sphere, protruding from which were a dozen 'spokes', four on each level, which ended in docking ports which could serve the needs of up to a dozen ships at any time. He wondered if it sees any such activity other than when an Imperial fleet goes through on its way to enforce some action or to blow someone out of the cosmos.