Chapter Thirty-seven

Best Served Cold

T'Pol

My authorization holds good.

Needless to say, many questions are asked. This is a high-security prison, even by the Empire's standards, and no-one wishes to take the blame for an error with access to a man whose name even now is held in veneration in rebel enclaves. But an order from the highest authority, once accepted as genuine, must not be resisted. There is no question but that it must be verified (in the Empire, self-preservation is viewed as so purely sensible it is an automatic response), but resistance after that point is unthinkable.

Why should anyone mistrust me? My story was well published, during the trial – of so much widespread interest that its details were eagerly absorbed everywhere. I resisted against a mutiny and suffered for upholding the legally appointed captain of my ship; then, to compound the injustice, I was handed over as a sex slave to the man whom I had employed as part of that resistance, and who had suffered for it. He had no reason to love me, and he did not.

Nor I him, indeed.

All this is common knowledge. I was even trusted to bear witness against him at the court martial and was praised for my testimony and for my 'long service to the Empire even under conditions of duress and inhumane treatment', for which the medal gleamed prominent on my chest. Be sure that the tale of my wrongs lost nothing in the telling; I regaled the watching millions with every detail of the treatment to which I had been subjected by a monster in Human form. Vulcans not being given to flights of imagination, I had obtained some of it by research on the internet, but it seemed that no act of perversion was unthinkable in a man who had betrayed the trust placed in him by a benevolent and overly trusting Empire, cruelly deceived by his show of devotion.

In anything but a show trial, of course, such extraneous detail would have been unthinkable. But this was a piece of theatre in all but name, and I had been primed well in advance that it would be greatly to my benefit if my evidence was 'media-friendly'. The first person to advise me of this was Trip himself, of course. He had known even better than I what my best defense would be, and since my survival and advancement was his best hope of rescue, I reluctantly concurred in it. Nevertheless, it would be futile to claim that I felt no shame at the lies that fell from my lips in the witness-stand, though both he and I had agreed in advance that this would be necessary; the cameras might mistake my occasional glances at him for fear and loathing at my 'remembrances', but I hoped and believed he would see in them my sorrow for so vilely traducing him. Both he and I knew the truth, and though even the truth was hard enough in some parts, we had made our peace with it. He in no way deserved or had earned the opprobrium my 'revelations' brought upon him as the audience eagerly devoured the prurient details of my servitude even as they reviled the perpetrator thereof.

He spoke to me just once, as they were leading him away after my testimony ended. "Done a real good job there, T'Pol," he said, his voice flat and void of feeling, and though I had hoped he meant it to be complimentary, I wasn't sure even then if prison hadn't already reverted him to the cruel and angry man he was when I first became his property. "I hope you get what you deserve." Even his wish for me was perfectly ambiguous.

The memory of it echoes in my mind now as I watch the last door being unlocked. Though I am given to understand that he has a certain amount of freedom to socialize with other prisoners during the day, the multiple layers of security and the duranium walls and floors make it impossible for prisoners to leave the confines of the cellblock without multiple guards escorting them. As I have arrived after lockdown, he is already sealed tightly away in his cell. Without the guard's security code, not even fresh air can enter until morning.

The authorization, issued in Admiral Hernandez's name but undoubtedly on the Emperor's orders, was explicit. I am granted free access and complete authority, even in excess of the limits of his Declaration of Commutation though still short of fatal injury or death. Whatever assistance I may require, I am to have. As she waited her turn to testify at the court martial, she listened with the rest to my tales of rape and abuse. No doubt she thinks that even the superior strength of a Vulcan will not suffice for the extent of my revenge; there must be witnesses to his suffering and humiliation, and probably even additional participants as there sometimes were in my own case.

The plain and professional-looking briefcase I have brought has been scanned as a matter of course, in the unlikely event that I may be smuggling weapons to the prisoner. The officer manning the scanner smirked as he saw the result. No doubt the contents assured him that Tucker was in for a very uncomfortable few hours at my hands – shackles the prison is undoubtedly well familiar with, but some of the additional items are probably more of a rarity.

The briefcase handle is suddenly slippery in my grip as the last ward slides back. I have waited so long for this, and now I am terrified of what I will see.

Unless it was discovered, the earwig he wore when he was arrested should have continued as a link to the outside world for quite some time. But there was no guarantee that it would remain undetected, or even that the transmissions would reach him through the sophisticated shields of the prison. Though I noted television screens in the common area, I have no idea what the prisoners are permitted (or are they forced?) to watch. Also, while he is allowed now to spend time with other Human beings, that concession might have been too little and come far too late to save his brilliant mind and sociable nature from the ravages of loneliness on the human psyche. Moreover, the other prisoners surrounding him might be so deeply disturbed that it doesn't make a difference. Has he still been effectively deprived of meaningful human contact all this time? How will he react, seeing me so suddenly and unexpectedly? Have the small allowances that have been made preserved him from the otherwise inevitable mental collapse of a member of a naturally gregarious species kept without social or intellectual stimulation?

In the event, the cell is not as bad as I had feared. It is small, but it is spotlessly clean, with a table and chair bolted to the floor as if to indicate that he sometimes has something to do there, a footlocker that could imply that he might be allowed some personal possessions or at least a change of clothes to access without having to ask permission, and a neatly made bunk with what appears to be a warm blanket and a mattress of sorts, thin though it may be. I can only suppose that his accommodations in the general prison population are a concession to the fact that even the Court Martial could not find grounds on which to convict him of treason, and I suspect that even now Empress Sato still thinks of him with some fondness. If so, he more than merits it, considering it was his work on Jupiter Station that turned the course of the war.

In what terms Emperor Burnell thinks of him, I can only speculate. I have been given a chance – but to do what?

The prisoner himself is seated cross-legged on the bunk. I see immediately that he is meditating, for his eyes open slowly and for a moment he seems not to know where he is or why someone is in the room with him; but as soon as awareness enters his face he shrinks back, his eyes on me.

The guard who has come in with me smiles as he tests the shackle that secures Trip to the wall. Presumably this has been put on him because they have been notified that a visitor is expected today; its chain is long enough to allow him access to the toilet, but that is the limit. "I'll guess you know the lady," he grins. "Seems she's got permission to visit. Enjoy." He passes a small comm. unit to me; I have already been told the specific signal to use through it when I wish to leave. "Take as long as you like, Ma'am."

"Admiral Hernandez gave me that permission," I reply coldly. "Furthermore, I require the closed-circuit monitoring switched off. All circuits deactivated. No recording to take place. And I will verify that when I emerge."

It is an unusual request, and like all minions he dislikes the unusual; also, no doubt, he was looking forward to the forthcoming show. I stare him down, however; the message is clear – I am not going to permit my private revenge to be circulated for the entertainment of the chattering classes. Finally, reluctantly, he nods.

I step aside to allow him to leave. I am silent till the last of the wards re-engages, but within my breast my heart is beating wildly. Fear is printed on Trip's face, the fear of a wild animal in a cage, and I wonder desperately if he has been so ill-used that every visitor now represents a threat, or if he actually believes that I too have betrayed him, or if, perhaps, it has been so long since anyone from the outside has come to see him that he thinks anyone at all must be bearing bad news. After all, I have prospered greatly since I stood in that courtroom and branded him a pervert and a criminal, while he has languished here with no more than the thinnest hope of eventual rescue to sustain him. Every morning he must have had to rebuild that hope, and every evening seen it die, unfulfilled. What if, during the intervening years, he has wearied of the constant effort without reward, has come to think that I was like all the others, making my bid for power by means of his downfall?

I have not come unprepared. He watches as I press a tiny button on a chronometer he gave me long ago. It changes the display on the dial, but more than that it emits a silent signal that will scramble electronic signals from any transmitter nearby; I know better than to trust a promise from those whose business includes surveillance as a matter of course.

And at that, the old light leaps up in his face, and his smile is a thing that sets my heart bounding for joy.

"I could not come before, T'hy'la," I tell him, closing the distance between us in two long steps so that his arms can go around me. "But I have come as soon as I could."

"You didn't take any risks?" he presses, as soon as our lips part (this is most agreeably delayed). "T'Pol, I – I can't tell you how good it is to see you, but if this puts you in any danger–"

"There is no danger," I assure him, freeing one hand to smooth back his hair from his forehead; it is not cut often enough, and is longer than I have ever seen it. "I have authority from Admiral Hernandez herself to visit you – in order to exact my long-awaited revenge."

He laughs silently. "I can't wait."

There is no need for either of us to wait; our long hunger ends now. The empty play with others' bodies fades for me in his incandescent passion.

=/\=

I have no idea how long has passed before calm finally falls between us. He is lying beside me, his fingers stroking lightly along my face.

"You've no idea how often I imagined you lyin' here," he murmurs. "The only thing that made it kinda bearable was thinkin' that if you were, you'd be locked up too."

He looks worn by his captivity. There are strands of gray in the blond hair now. It makes no difference to how I feel for him. None at all.

Wash and backwash of new tranquility travels across the bond, still luminous with the joy of our reunion. But there is curiosity too.

"Tell me what's gone on since I was taken." Urgency enters his voice. "They probably won't leave you in here much longer, and nobody tells me anything. We get the news broadcasts, but you know as well as I do that they're more propaganda than news most of the time. I've been goin' mad wonderin' what happened – if Mal and Liz and the others got away…"

It is no surprise to me that he does not mention Amanda Cole, and, though I am curious how he managed to overcome the sting of her betrayal, I will not waste time in asking. If he does not want to discuss her treachery, I am content to neither hear nor speak her name ever again.

"They escaped successfully." I am glad beyond words to have good news to give him, and to watch his face light up again with joy and relief. "But you are right. I may have Admiral Hernandez's official permission to visit you, but I would imagine the guards will be growing rather anxious in case I have been so carried away by my thirst for revenge that I am now sitting in here wondering how to dispose of the body." I sit up and reach for our discarded clothes. "It will be advisable for both of us to get dressed."

"Maybe you should punch me a coupl'a times," he says bleakly, pulling on his pants. "Stop them wonderin' what you were really doin' in here with me." He stops suddenly, and grips my arm. "T'Pol, you took a hell of a risk coming here. I don't – look, if you can't come again, if it's not possible, I'll–"

I lay a fingertip on his lips, silencing him. "I have no intention whatsoever of visiting this prison again."

He absorbs the blow. For a blow it is, even though he himself has just urged this sensible course of action. After a moment he nods, and summons up the best smile he can muster. "It's probably for the best."

"For one thing," I continue, "I doubt whether the Admiral would give me permission again. But my primary reason for not doing so will be that you are no longer a captive in it."

Even as overjoyed comprehension dawns in his eyes I press the button that supposedly opens the briefcase I have brought with me, and which has lain forgotten to one side. "Mister Rostov, I believe your assistance would be timely."

"Thought you were never going to call."

We are not a moment too soon. Even as the familiar tingle of the transporter envelops us I see the cell door start to open. A face that turns from avid speculation to horrified comprehension fades away, to be replaced by the interior of the cloaked shuttle that has hovered over the prison, awaiting my call.

Anna Hess is standing at the transporter controls; as soon as the process is completed she darts forward to throw her arms around Trip, a gesture which is fiercely returned – and which I can observe with proprietorial tolerance, since no flicker of anything other than the warmest friendship and gratitude towards her disturbs the Bond.

The movement of the decking underfoot suggests that Rostov has taken the initiative to remove us from the area of the facility with all speed. This is a wise precaution, as alarms will no doubt be sounding already, and even though the shuttle is cloaked there will be a desperate and intensive hunt for the escapee and his co-conspirators.

As Trip strides forward to drop into the co-pilot's chair – due thanks to the pilot will no doubt be rendered later, when we may more justifiably regard ourselves as safe from recapture – Anna Hess looks at me, her face wearing a huge smile as she confesses, "I'll be honest, T'Pol, I was wondering right up till the last minute whether Mike's thingumajig was going to work."

"If I had known that its efficacy was in so much doubt, I probably would not have entered the prison in the first place," I respond severely. "I was given to understand that the device I took in disguised as a collar had been exhaustively tested to make sure it would disable the shield transmitters around the prison. The description 'Mike's thingumajig' would not have inspired me with confidence."

"Well," she smiles disarmingly, "it definitely was tested."

"'Exhaustively'," I specify.

She hedges. "Welllll…. Nearly."

"How nearly?"

"Well by the time we were finished with it we were both bloody exhausted, so there was an 'exhaust' in there somewhere."

I could take issue with this, but the fact is that she is no longer a Starfleet officer and I have not been her superior since before Hoshi Sato ascended the throne almost two decades ago. I am now a rebel and a traitor just like she is, on the run for aiding and abetting the escape of a convicted criminal.

As I hear Trip chuckling at our exchange, the realization is so wonderful that it takes some self-control to refrain from hugging her myself.

=/\=

"That should do it, don't you think?" Trip's voice drifts out of the shuttle's engine compartment, taking me back more years than even a Vulcan cares to remember to days when I was seconded to work under him in Main Engineering aboard Enterprise in or immediately following the heat of battle.

As we flew westerly across the Pacific Ocean, he had explained to us how Amanda had not actually betrayed him, but merely agreed to testify against him in exchange for being allowed to resume clandestine humanitarian operations under Burnell's aegis after he secured the throne as emperor. She'd had to report evidence the then-Colonel had supplied her as though she'd gathered it herself, and she had done a convincing job of it – we had all been deceived by her performance. The news came as a surprise to all of us, and Hess and Rostov were visibly pleased to know their friend had remained true to the mission, but we promptly put down in an onion field in China when Trip explained how Burnell had discovered a way to track the cloaked shuttle.

Fortunately, the intervening years had been more than enough time for him to work out how to solve the problem. With Rostov's help, he made the necessary adjustments himself in less than an hour, relishing the opportunity to ply his trade once more while Hess and I followed a nearby wagon track to a dismal little hut not far away and purchased some bread, cured meat, fruit and cheese from an incurious peasant farmer. Then we promptly abandoned the area.

"Emissions are reading zero, Boss," Rostov replies. "It can't be better than that."

"Good work, Mikey," Trip praises him and I hear the slap of a hand on a shoulder or back, swiftly followed by the sounds of panels being closed and equipment being stowed.

"So, what's the plan?" Trip asks as he and Rostov join Hess and me. "I'm sure you have a plan."

After the onion field, we altered our heading to fly in a south-westerly direction over the Indian subcontinent, then due west to random coordinates over the Sahara before adjusting course once more to travel northeast to our previously planned destination. If our path had been straight, we would have nearly circumnavigated the globe, but as it is, we have put half of the circumference of Earth between us and the prison facility, until we finally felt confident enough to land again and rest. Hess and I laid out our humble repast whilst Trip and Rostov were running scans to ensure their modifications have stopped the emissions Burnell had most likely been tracking years ago. Now, the gentlemen join us, and we all fall to with the shuttle parked out on the endless steppes of what used to be Russia. Trip eats sitting on the ledge of the shuttle, feasting his eyes on the wide lands and the wide sky above them, the latter paling towards evening with the first bright stars pricking out.

"Anna and I will be going back to Utah," says Rostov placidly. "We run a little store somewhere that needs one. Now and then, someone needs a good turn doing, and they know where to come these days. Place seems a little kinder than it used to, for some reason." He turns his head, and he and Trip share a smile.

"You might want to delay goin' home for a while," Trip advises them, "just in case whoever is lookin' for us decides to check out the global scans an' goes back to a while before you beamed me out to see where my ride came from."

Rostov and Hess share a look, and Anna replies. "We've been hiding the shuttle more than a hundred kilometers away in a storage unit under a false name, Chief. When we need to use it, we have to hop a couple different trains to get to it, but we don't do much that requires it these days."

"In fact," Rostov takes over, "apart from today, the last time we used it was a few months after your trial. The local resistance cell we'd hooked up with had managed to hijack an entire convoy of Earth Army goods and needed to move them fast. They took what they could carry, left the rest at a supply dump we'd sent them to, and disappeared into the wilderness. A few days later, we went and got the shuttle, loaded it up, and went around to different villages near some of the old distribution centers to drop stuff off."

"Sounds like quite a risk to me." Trip frowns.

"Well, we got away with it, so I'd say it was worth it." Anna's reply is somewhat defensive.

"Besides, we got some stuff we needed for the store," Mike agrees with her.

"And a case or two of some damned fine bourbon," Anna adds with a grin as she opens a compartment and pulls out a heavy glass bottle of amber liquid. Utilitarian metal tumblers are produced from another compartment, and conversation pauses for a few minutes while all sample the strong spirits. Hess and Trip both enjoy a full measure, while Rostov gets half the amount due to the fact that he is 'a lightweight'. After confirming that Vulcans usually do not partake of alcohol, I receive only enough to taste for the obligatory toast.

"To freedom an' old friends," Trip says, "May they both be safe forevermore."

The fiery liquid is still burning its way down my throat when he asks, "Anyone heard from Mal and Liz?"

This, unfortunately, we cannot answer positively – except for being able to draw some comfort from the conviction that if they had been captured or killed, the news would have been widely broadcast.

Trip looks pensive. "Mal won't let any harm come to her. 'Cept over his dead body."

I wonder if he has any sense of how far things have traveled to allow him to say that with such confidence. Time was when Crewman Cutler was an object of pity and derision aboard Enterprise for being the object of Reed's 'affections', for want of a better word. Now my t'hy'la speaks with the utmost confidence when he says she could have no better protector.

Truly, the world changes….

"So, what about us, sweetheart?" He turns to me. "We gonna take the shuttle and make a run for it?"

I exhale.

There has not been time to explain before, but now I must tell him the story of how I obtained permission to visit him. Hernandez's name was on the permit documents, but it was not by her will that I finally achieved my goal.

I have already stated that Emperor Burnell is a subtle and a dangerous man. The fairy tale of my possible eventual freedom will keep until Trip and I are alone together, but I explain for his and the others' benefit how Burnell has made Hernandez directly responsible for the visit that allowed Trip to be freed. She will be lucky to survive this.

Was that his sole motive?

And if not, what else did he intend to happen?

I finish relating the tale. "He said that I was to make the most of my visit, but his last words to me were 'Convey to him that I require my Empire to be left alone'."

Little news came to Trip in the prison. During our flight here, I told him many things, including the death of his treacherous PA Eloise Chastain. I told him that despite an official block on the details, persistent rumors hiss that it was bloody and prolonged; someone somewhere is not interested in leaving the Empire alone, at least not those members of it who may be considered accessory to the end of Trip's rule on Jupiter Station. At that point, his eyes met mine in shared hope that we know who the assassin was; if we are right, Malcolm Reed is still alive and active. It is highly unlikely his desire for revenge would have been lessened by the years.

"He was a decent guy, Burnell," Trip says pensively, tearing another bite of the good fresh bread; doubtless it is far better than prison fare. "If he really intended for you to break me out, guess I owe him something."

"Indeed," I say slowly. "But I believe that without precisely invalidating the … terms of his orders, there is still work we can do here on Earth."

Unsurprisingly, he looks dubious, but his faith in me is absolute. He waits for explanation.

"The Emperor apparently believes that Vulcan is wholly subdued, and has granted it autonomous home rule under an Imperial Military Governor. But while the governor will certainly find the Planetary Council co-operative, not everyone on Vulcan has conceded that they are subjects of the Empire."

An interested quirk of one eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"There are still those who wish to play some part in the Resistance." I hesitate. "Trip, Vulcans still pursue the teachings of Surak. They will not actively attack the Empire. Instead they offer…. sanctuary."

He purses his lips, considering. "That's still pretty damn dangerous."

I nod. "They understand that. But the offer is there, if a system can be set up whereby those who need it are given guidance and help to get there."

Establishing and running such a system is also 'pretty damn dangerous'. It will take time, and cunning, and resources; and above all, courage. But courage will never be found wanting in the man who stood up to the Empire and faced its malice alone and unsupported.

He is not impulsive in such matters. He wisely takes his time to think it over, no doubt also contemplating ways and means should he take up the challenge I have offered him. We eat in silence, while dusk creeps over the steppes and more stars appear.

"Maybe after I've had such a narrow squeak from spendin' the rest of my life in prison, I should think about claimin' sanctuary myself." When he finally speaks, musingly as though speaking his thoughts aloud, his tone is full of shadows. I am not sure whether or not he is in earnest. If he is, I can hardly blame him – should he be recaptured, his fate would without doubt be appalling. Burnell would not offer him a second chance if he botched the first. Maybe it is unfair to ask more of him than he has already endured; maybe he has already earned the right to rest at last, in humble security and comfort.

"Wherever you go, I will go with you," I say calmly.

"But if I went, then the Empire would have won after all." He looks at me challengingly. "I'm guessin' there'll be others needin' somewhere to run to and someone to guide 'em there. And I'm not goin' to fly off to Vulcan and sit there safe on my ass leavin' them to die because there was no-one."

My heart leaps, and Hess and Rostov cheer. Even, illogically, I suspect the stars overhead are twinkling more brilliantly.

I know that his thoughts are with two friends who may one day – somehow – come to claim that sanctuary. He can only wait, and hope. But I will wait with him, and in the meantime, we will hold open the door for them and for any others who come in need.

Our resistance has begun its resurrection.

Vive la résistance! It looks like Trip and T'Pol might get some kind of happily every after, but the Wheel of Fortune is always turning in the MU. Maybe becoming conductors on the Underground Railroad transporting rebels to sanctuary on Vulcan isn't such a good idea. Maybe they should just take advantage of the Vulcan's hospitality while they have the chance. Surely, they've done enough already. What do you think? Please leave a review if you're enjoying the story.