Thank you to all my reviewers. Mystique 1981, if you are reading this: LOL! I liked the mental image that Greece is only a hop away from Italy! Wouldn't want, in case you miscalculated your hop, you to plunge into the Adriatic, so I'll try to keep the FIN stories coming! ;-)
§ 6 §
"They are gaining on us," Travis said, eyes on his instruments.
"They are hailing us again," Hoshi echoed him.
"Go to Warp five, Ensign," Blake ordered tersely.
Travis shot a quick, wide-eyed glance towards the science station; when no counter-order came from there, he acknowledged with a quiet, "Aye, Sir."
A second later T'Pol stood up. In Malcolm's mind, that was tantamount to flying off the handle; in Vulcan terms of course.
"Admiral, I fail to see the logic behind this course of action," she said in a compelling variance of her level tone of voice. "We have no issues with the Andorians."
We, who? Malcolm wondered. Vulcans did have a few issues with the blue aliens, as far as he understood. Did T'Pol consider herself part of Starfleet now? Trip should have been here to hear that.
Blake turned his head to her in what looked like bland annoyance. "Subcommander, we have wasted enough time. I'm not out here to answer any the weird automated signal we receive, or hail from the ships we come across."
What are you out here for? Malcolm silently questioned him; aloud, he warned, "If we don't answer their hails, soon we might well find ourselves in the position to have to answer their phase cannons."
"I don't remember asking your opinion, Lieutenant," Blake snapped, jerking back to him. "Did Captain Archer always keep such slack discipline on his Bridge?"
He looked – Malcolm thought – like a snake coiled to attack.
"Captain Archer encouraged the senior staff to express their opinions."
T'Pol's voice was unconfrontational but self-assured, and Malcolm was glad she had saved him from answering that rebuke himself: his own reply would have undoubtedly been a lot less restrained. He might be inclined to agree with Blake about Bridge protocol, but his loyalty did not lay with this man.
"Well, I prefer senior officers to keep their opinions to themselves, unless they are asked," Blake retorted. Turning to the right again, he added, in a subtly provocative tone, "And in case of a fire fight I do hope that as an Armoury Officer you are slightly more proficient than you were as a Security one, Lieutenant."
Malcolm's heart missed a beat. The cutting remark hurt more than he cared to admit, because he felt it wasn't altogether undeserved. He had failed in his duty to protect his captain. He was momentarily left without a reply; but indeed, perhaps one wasn't even expected. It was T'Pol, once again, who came to his rescue.
"Lieutenant Reed, both as Armoury and Security Officer, has the complete trust of this crew," she said, with a characteristic lift of her eyebrows.
Blake mirrored her expression. "He does? That's good to know."
After his role in Archer's demise, Malcolm seriously doubted he deserved that trust. T'Pol's words were, however, unexpectedly comforting. It was surprising to find an advocate in the person on board who, in the past months, had not refrained from underlining all the faux pas Humans made out here in space. The pain in his chest dulled a little, and he shot the Vulcan a grateful look. It was lost on her, however, because her steady gaze remained locked with Blake's spirited one, seemingly in a battle of wills.
It was a relief when Trip's voice sounded through the comm. link, drawing attention away from the issue of his professional proficiency or lack thereof.
"Tucker to the Bridge: why are we travellin' at Warp five?" the Engineer asked outright.
"Not another one," Blake muttered under his breath. "Because I ordered it, Commander," he replied aloud as he opened the link on the Captain's armrest. "Do I need your approval?"
There was a small pause.
"Not my approval, Admiral; but Engineering needs a little warnin'," Trip came back warily. "You doknow that we cannot hold that speed for very long, don't you?."
Blake snorted. "I thought this ship was the pride of the fleet, Earth's first Warp five vessel," he said, stressing the words. "What's the point of making such a fuss about it if we cannot travel at that speed?"
"Enterprise can do Warp five just fine; just not as her cruisin' speed."
Malcolm could hear the edge in Trip's voice. It wasn't the Southerner's usual kindly tone.
"With all due respect, Admiral," Trip went on tautly. "I said we'd make your rendezvous in time and I intend to keep my word. We don't need to strain the warp engine in the process."
"With all due respect, Admiral," T'Pol echoed, albeit without that edge in her voice, "Given that we cannot outrun the Andorian ship, your course of action appears illogical, in fact counterproductive."
"Andorian ship?" Trip's voice enquired in puzzlement.
"An Andorian ship is hailing us, Commander," T'Pol informed him.
Hoshi nodded, silently biting her lip. She didn't need to speak: urgency was painted all over her face.
"They're still closing on us," Mayweather said, turning to the Vulcan.
Malcolm's console came alive. "Subcommander," he warned, he too choosing to bypass Blake. "I'm reading a power surge. They're arming their weapons."
Suddenly the Admiral shot up from the Captain's chair. He was a taut some one-hundred-and-eighty pounds of muscle and nerves.
"All right," he said through clenched teeth. "Answer their hails. Get rid of them, and make sure you don't mention my presence on board, or that of Ambassador V'Sir."
With a last meaningful glance at the Subcommander, he strode up the few steps and proceeded to lock himself in Archer's ready room.
"Ensign Mayweather, go to Warp three point five," T'Pol immediately said, taking position by the vacated Captain's chair. Nodding to Hoshi, she silently ordered a link open. A pair of well-known antennae appeared on the screen.
Commander Shran, of the Andorian Imperial Guard, looked ready to explode into a string of harsh words, but as soon as he saw who was on Enterprise's Bridge his face registered first surprise; then suspicion.
"Subcommander, where is Captain Archer?" he demanded, brown eyes narrowing.
The enquiry made Malcolm shift nervously on his chair. He looked around, fearing Shran might read the answer to his question on his crewmates' faces, but, to his relief, no one gave anything away. He didn't know why he felt Shran shouldn't be told, actually; perhaps it was he – Malcolm – who feared to hear it said aloud: it would make Archer's death final and accepted. He carefully schooled his own features; Shran might take a good look at him and suspect something – and not only because of the bruise on his forehead.
"The Captain is not here," T'Pol replied noncommittally.
Apparently she too didn't see it necessary to inform Shran of the why.
Shran's gaze hardened. "I'm not blind, Vulcan. So if Captain Archer is off duty, you sit in his chair giving orders to ignore another ship's hails? In fact, you speed away from her?"
He had taken T'Pol's words at face value.
"I apologise," their Second in Command offered. "But I had no particular wish to speak to a Commander of the Imperial Guard."
Impressive. Attack as a defensive move. Malcolm almost gave a nod of approval.
Just then the lift doors opened and Trip stepped on the Bridge, undoubtedly determined to see with his own eyes what was going on. He took but a glance at Shran, and shot a frowning look at T'Pol.
Malcolm could well imagine the thoughts that were crossing his friend's mind. Their first run into the Andorians, at P'Jem, had been rather hostile, but had ended up with Archer helping uncover a Vulcan spy station. Their second one, a few months later, had ended with Shran helping Trip and Malcolm rescue Archer – to whom he had felt indebted – and T'Pol from a militant faction on a planet. Still – Malcolm mused – in both cases Vulcans and Andorians had butted heads, and it wasn't very clear whether either race was to be fully trusted. Malcolm was glad Trip had come up: he wanted him to witness firsthand what would pass between Shran and T'Pol.
"Commander Tucker," Shran greeted, a mirthless half smile playing on his lips. "I was complaining about the Subcommander's ungallant behaviour: unanswered hails, out here in space, can lead to regrettable incidents." His scornful expression changed to cold anger as he dropped all pretences and went for a direct, "Why were you so eager to get away from us?"
Trip straightened his shoulders. "Our two encounters didn't exactly leave us with a desire to see you again, Shran," he said.
Extraordinary – Malcolm mused. It was more or less the same reply T'Pol had given. Without knowing, Trip had supported her words. Different as they were, those two had apparently managed to think along the same lines, for once. Neither of them might like the idea, actually.
"Let me speak to Captain Archer," Shran demanded. "Vulcans are deceitful, and as far as Pinkskins are concerned, he's the only one I more or less trust."
Trip's jaw clenched. "That is not possible." Emotion briefly flitted across his features.
Shran's eyes bore into him, and Malcolm froze. But Trip regained control and added, "Captain Archer can't be reached at the moment."
The Andorian's gaze rested on him a moment longer; then scanned the Bridge. When it came to Malcolm, it stopped, narrowing.
"Nice bruise, Lieutenant," he said. "Too bad it's turning green already, a colour of skin I don't particularly like. Blue was undoubtedly more attractive. How did you get it?"
"I fell off the bed," Malcolm replied deadpan, crossing his arms over his chest. He might have, too, seeing how he had tossed and turned, prey to his haunting dreams.
Shran's silently considered the words, clearly repressing some angry reply.
"Was there something you wanted from us?" T'Pol courteously enquired.
The Andorian turned back to her. "Not really. Just thought I'd offer Archer a glass of Andorian ale." After a last inquisitive look, he added, "Have a good day. And say hello to your Captain for me."
The screen returned to show the stars again, and Malcolm relaxed his shoulders. Relief washing over him, he pressed two fingers on his eyes. Immediately Archer was there, compelling, pleading. You left me behind, the green gaze accused.
Flashing his eyes open, Malcolm jumped to his feet. Trip and T'Pol were discussing something; they stopped and looked at him in puzzlement.
"Permission to leave the Bridge for a few minutes?" Malcolm croaked out, knowing he must look like hell. To anticipate any enquiry he added, "I must report to sickbay for treatment."
T'Pol nodded. "Permission granted."
Malcolm beckoned a relief crewman to take his place; then, eyes on the deck plating, he walked to the lift, wondering if he might have PTS. Perhaps he was simply going out of his mind.
TBC
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