Imperial Military Academy 2140
Lloyd - Soval- had given her a purpose something to occupy her mind.
Something to distract her mind from dwelling on...less pleasant events.
The boy, perhaps unsurprisingly, had noticed nothing about the aftermath. Distracted by the sudden arrival of his own future, he'd paid no mind to the long stretches of silence or to the way that T'Pol, suddenly noticing them, would fill them with awkward chatter. Nor had he noticed her physical discomfort, perhaps attributing it to a fear of flying. It had, after all, been her first trip ever in an actual passenger compartment.
Or perhaps he'd attributed it to the radical alteration in her wardrobe. Far from the cast-off, ill-fitting clothes of a middle-aged socialite, to which she had become accustomed, she was now dressed so as to barely conceal her nakedness, and to heavily suggest it.
Her role had changed, or rather a new role had been added. Now she was intended to be SEEN.
But the inside of her mind could not be seen. And she set it squarely upon Soval's words, repeating them over and over, dwelling on the most delicious of them, the most forbidden, rebellion.
But there was a problem. Soval's plan depended upon the boy releasing her and Soval to the Imperial forces when his father died.
Which meant that the boy had to be alive to do it.
Unfortunately, in the shark-tank that was the Imperial Military Academy, the boy seemed determined to embody chum.
"You need to make friends," T'Pol had urged the boy gently, after a training "mishap" that had nearly cost him an eye.
"I'm not good at friends," the boy had replied moodily.
T'Pol had turned her mind to the problem. "Jonathan Archer. He's insecure to be so much older than everyone else, but he's well connected enough to offer you some protection. What's more, he's easy. He loves talking about himself and loves being agreed with and praised, and absorbs anyone willing to do so into his entourage."
"Fine, fine. Consider me Jonathan Archer's new personal toady."
And at this, the boy had done well.
But, she'd realised as his third year began, and the 'accidents' had not yet stopped, it wasn't going to be enough.
To really keep him safe, she had to make him into an object of fear.
And humans feared the strong and the mad.
And, T'Pol reminded herself, as she discretely dissolved more of the mild hallucinogen into the soup, the boy did not have the raw materials to appear strong.
"Have some soup before we go," T'Pol said placing the bowl on the table.
"Oh, thanks," the boy replied distractedly, picking at his hair. "You really make the most terrific soup. I don't think I've ever eaten anything quite so satisfying. You should have some too."
"It is made with chicken broth," T'Pol replied smoothly.
The boy squinted. "Is chicken broth made from chickens? I guess one is supposed to think so, what with it being called chicken broth. But I rather have my suspicions, and you can't trust advertising. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen an actual chicken. Do you think it is possible that there are no more chickens and that we are actually eating something else? Cats, maybe. Or some sort of lab grown slime? I mean how would we even know?"
"It is alright," T'Pol replied calmly. "I have seen chickens. Before I came to work for you."
"Oh. Oh, well that's good isn't it? One less thing to worry about. Chickens are still chickens then. You look nice, by the way."
"Thank you."
"Bit wasted on this evening, I'm afraid. It's going to be tedious. We're just going to Jonathan's and it's not much of an occasion. Just a welcome dinner for one of the new cadets. Some kid who his father rescued from some godforsaken existence, and gave an engineering apprenticeship to."
T'Pol considered. "Henry Archer is in the habit of surrounding his son with talented people in his debt. This cadet might be worth knowing."
"Don't worry, 'mother', I'll be polite. I'm just saying it wasn't worth getting dressed up."
"We have appearances to maintain," T'Pol replied firmly. "Always."
And at the reception she did just that. Leaving Malcolm to listen to - and laugh along with - a story of Jonathan's which they had both heard many times before, she drifted around Jonathan Archers suite of rooms, attempting to look expensive.
Then she awarded herself a break, a few minutes of solitude, unobserved in a corridor, peering out a rain-streaked window into the moonlight.
But then it happened. It was only for a moment, but when she heard someone moving behind her in the dark, for that moment she was back in Carlisle, with Stuart Reed's twisting her arm behind her back, and without thinking she struck first.
She had the figure pinned against a wall with her forearm jamming firmly against his adam's apple, before she realised that she was actually safe - relatively speaking- in San Francisco. Or she had been safe, until she'd unthinkingly attacked a cadet, and cost herself her life.
T'Pol slowly raised her eyes to the figure's face, to see exactly who had sealed her fate.
It was the guest of honour, no less. The new cadet. Henry Archer's foundling protégé.
He smiled at her winningly. "Sorry, ma'am. Must'a startled you there."
And somehow, suddenly, his eyes were the bluest thing T'Pol had ever seen.
