Chapter 7
Archer was moving alongside Admiral Forrest, headed through the narrow corridors of the Enterprise. They were discussing T’Pol—in order to avoid discussing the fact that the two of them would probably never see each other again.
“I’m not surprised…” Forrest was saying. Archer had just informed him of the fact that the High Command had insisted on T’Pol’s return to her homeworld.
“Soval agreed to let us take her back to Vulcan,” the Captain said, “if it’s all right with you.” He was both glad and happy that Soval had said yes; it allowed everyone to spend more time with her—but perhaps saying good-bye now, quickly, would be easier.
Forrest of course nodded. He was not that far removed from the captaincy himself; he understood how attached crew members could become to each other—even if one of them was a Vulcan. “It’s not that far out of your way.” He paused, keeping his tone brisk, businesslike. “How’s the last refit team doing?”
“They’re scheduled to be done by oh-six-hundred.” Archer fell silent as the two of them reached an airlock.
On the other side was spacedock, and Earth. Archer could only hope it would be there when—if—he returned.
Forrest’s expression softened. “I could tell you there’re a lot of people counting on you…but I don’t need to do that, do I?” The gratitude and pride in his quiet tone was unmistakable; Archer straightened, feeling a surge of respect for the man. It was no longer possible to ignore the fact that they most likely would never see each other again.
“No, sir.”
The Admiral smiled faintly and extended his hand. “Good luck, Jon.”
Not wanting to be maudlin, Archer did not respond; instead, he took the proffered hand. Forrest’s grip was firm, reassuring. Archer returned it briefly, then watched as the Admiral made his way into the airlock.
Aboard the Klingon bird-of-prey, Duras was pacing the bridge. Patience; patience was what he needed most now, especially now that the time for battle had drawn near.
He had been forced to wait an agonizing span of days, far beyond the area of space surrounding Earth; Enterprise, Archer’s ship, had been docked there, possibly for repairs, according to Duras’s spies. There had been an attack on Archer’s homeworld by an unknown foe—a fact that made Duras rejoice.
But it also made him grind his teeth during long nights without sleep. It would be suicide—suicide without honor—to try to locate Archer on Earth and kill him there. While Duras did not fear death, he feared failure; he dared not die until he fulfilled the chancellor’s command, and brought Archer to justice.
So he had been forced to wait.
Now, word had come that, at long last, the Enterprise had pulled away from her moorings, and at last headed back into space.
Duras’s pulse thrummed in his ears, a war cry. “Have they gone to warp?”
“Not yet,” his first officer reported. He, too, sounded overeager; the days of boredom had worn on them all.
Duras issued an order, even though he knew his tactical officer would already be fulfilling it. “Charge weapons and prepare to bring them online!”
He sat, gaze wide, focused intently on the starlit viewscreen before him.
It was late, and the dimly lit Enterprise mess hall was empty, save for three denizens: Archer, Trip Tucker, and a half-empty bottle of Scotch. The Scotch, of course, belonged to Archer; he’d taken advantage of his time in San Francisco to pick up a few delicacies to brighten the long journey. He’d arrived first and procured a glass; Trip had followed soon after.
The Captain couldn’t help wondering just how many others aboard the ship were finding it difficult to sleep. He was grateful that so far, only Trip had found his way to the mess hall. With Trip, at least, Archer could relax and let down his hair.
Unlike most days, the Captain sat with his back to the windows. They were going to be at warp for a long, long time; he’d have his chance to get his fill of streaming warp stars.
He freshened his glass and peered over at Trip, whose dark blond hair was disheveled, no doubt the result of too much tossing and turning. “It’s bad enough that one of us is up in the middle of the night,” Archer groaned. He didn’t mention, of course, that Trip had more reason than any of them to be up: losing someone you loved was tough enough, but to lose someone in such a catastrophic event, one that was constantly referred to, constantly in the news…How could Trip ever take his mind off it? Their mission was the direct result of the attack.
Even so, Archer did his best to treat Trip no differently than ever. It was what Archer had appreciated most when his dad had died: those people who acknowledged the fact, but treated him normally, the same as they always had.
“How’s Porthos holding up?” Trip asked easily, his tone languid, faintly humorous—more like the old Trip than it had been in a long time. “If no people have returned from the Delphic Expanse, I doubt any dogs have.” Archer almost grinned at the image of a brave, allcanine crew…“He must be doing better than we are…He’s fast asleep.”
Each took a sip of his respective glass of Scotch.
Finally, Trip said, “Have you picked a new science officer?”
“No.” Maybe he was in denial, but Archer had told himself that his subconscious could work on the choice, that he had too many things on his mind at present to contemplate a replacement. When the time came, he would know who to promote from within the crew.
Trip nodded. “You’re gonna miss her, aren’t you?”
Archer sighed; a corner of his lip twisted wryly. “When they first assigned her, I felt like strangling Soval…”
“She does kinda grow on you,” Trip said.
Archer glanced up at him sharply, though not without humor. “I would think you’d be the first one to show her to the airlock.”
Trip shrugged, cavalier. Another long, exhausted silence ensued, and then the engineer raised his glass. “To Henry Archer.”
Archer lifted his eyebrows, puzzled.
By way of explanation, Trip said, “I wonder what he would’ve thought if he knew his engine was gonna help save the human race.”
Archer, frankly, was glad his father wasn’t there to see the attack, to feel the panic that afflicted everyone on Earth. His dad would have let him go into the Expanse, of course—but he would have been worried right into a coronary.
Archer swallowed a stiff belt of Scotch. It was single-malt, complexly fragrant, so smooth that he didn’t even feel the urge to cough, though his eyes watered slightly at the alcoholic fumes.
“When I first got this job,” he admitted softly, “commanding the first warp five ship was about as big a responsibility as I could’ve imagined. Then we began running into so many bad guys, I had to start thinking more about the safety of eighty-three people.”
Trip leaned forward on his elbows, drink cupped in one hand, and gave a faint nod. “And now the stakes have gotten a lot bigger….”
Archer looked down at his glass, and the amber liquid, reflecting starlight. “Weight of the world, Trip.”
“Literally.”
Trip belted back the remaining contents of his glass and refilled it; as he held the bottle, his gaze hardened.
“I can’t wait to get in there, Captain…Find the people who did this.” He set the bottle down and sought Archer’s gaze. “Tell me we won’t be tiptoeing around…None of that ‘noninterference’ crap T’Pol’s always shoving down our throats…” He paused to take another swallow, then said, in a burst of anger that startled Archer, “Maybe it’s a good thing she’s leaving!”
There it was: grief masked as anger, a feeling the Captain had known all too well himself. His tone was soothing. “We’ll do what we have to, Trip…whatever it takes.”
Tucker seemed only mildly mollified; he fell sullenly silent.
Archer raised his glass—then nearly dropped it as the deck rocked abruptly, to the sound of a simultaneous boom. He and Trip stood—and almost fell back into their seats as
the ship was hit again.
Duras, Archer thought, and managed to scramble for the door, without looking to see whether Trip was able to follow.
The bridge was rattling continually by the time Archer arrived; T’Pol, Reed, Hoshi, and Mayweather had all reported to their stations.
T’Pol looked up from her monitor the instant the Captain stepped foot on the bridge. “It’s Duras,” she reported.
Another boom echoed in Archer’s ears, punctuating her words. He kept his balance as the deck lurched, and swiftly turned to Reed. “You’ve been wanting to test those new torpedoes….”
Reed was clearly eager. “What yield, sir?”
“Start low. We just want to get them off our backs.”
Reed responded at once, working the controls on his console.
Archer kept his gaze focused on the viewscreen, and watched as two bright flares streaked away from Enterprise, toward the bird-of-prey.
Duras swore beneath his breath as the ship around him vibrated fiercely, the result of two near-simultaneous, powerful blasts. As soon as he could be heard, he roared, “What was that?”
“Antimatter warheads,” his tactical officer called, in a voice tinged with wonder.
Duras felt his own face contort with fury: his spies had said Enterprise was merely undergoing repairs—incompetent fools! All this time, the humans had been upgrading their weaponry, making Duras’s task all the harder.
But he would not be outdone; too much was at stake. “Increase shielding and target their weapon ports!” he commanded.
It was Enterprise’s turn to do some vibrating of her own.
As the bird-of-prey returned fire, Archer struggled not to lose his balance and drop to the deck; as for Reed, he was clutching his console, teeth chattering as he yelled, “They’re still on our backs, sir!”
“Bring the yield up,” Archer commanded. No point in being gracious or wasting time; Enterprise didn’t need to go into the Expanse already crippled. “Fifty percent.”
Reed grinned faintly as he set to work.
Duras’s head snapped back once, twice, in rapid succession, as though he had taken a personal blow.
His ship fared worse. He could feel the entire vessel heave upward and back along with him: he was momentarily dazzled as a section of circuit-lined bulkhead exploded onto the bridge in a brilliant fiery display. Debris whizzed a mere finger’s breadth from his face.
For an instant, centripetal force held him captive in his chair; the instant he could rise, he lurched toward his tactical officer and vented his rage. “I told you to target their weapon ports!”
The crewman shot him an unhappy but uncowed look; clearly, he had followed Duras’s orders. “Their hull plating’s been enhanced!”
Duras swore silently. If he survived his mission, he would surely see to it that his incompetent spies met their deaths.
Another blast threw him backwards against his chair.
His first officer turned to him, his expression one of desperation. “Our warp drive is failing!”
Duras ground his teeth so fiercely, flecks of enamel grazed his tongue. His every encounter with Archer seemed cursed, marked by failure and frustration. Were he superstitious, he would think Archer a demon, sent by Duras’s ancestors as punishment for some crime the Klingon had inadvertently committed.
Once again, he was forced to call off the chase: But only for a little while, he promised himself. Only for a little while, and when the time was right, he would take the most savage possible revenge.
On Enterprise, Archer’s adrenaline level was finally beginning to lower at the realization that the constant barrage had stopped, and the Klingon ship was slowing.
“They’re dropping to impulse,” Mayweather reported.
Archer turned to T’Pol. “How long will it take them to repair their engines?”
She looked up at him. “Impossible to determine…”
“Give me an educated guess,” Archer said sharply. He was in no mood for Vulcan literalness at the moment.
She hesitated, clearly reluctant to rely on what she considered insufficient data. “Three hours…possibly more.”
The Captain glanced back at Mayweather. “What’s our speed?”
“Warp three, sir.”
“Go to four-five,” Archer ordered, then once again addressed T’Pol. “If we can make it to Vulcan space before they get their engines back…they’ll think twice about giving us any trouble.”
He took his chair, both determined…and deeply relieved that the battle was, for the time being, over.
At the same time, he definitely was not looking forward to arriving at Vulcan.
Archer was in the ready room, gazing pensively out at the streaming stars, when the door chimed.
“Come in.”
T’Pol entered. She was not an easy read: most humans would never have noticed anything different about her behavior, but after spending a good deal of time with her in close quarters, Archer had begun to pick up on the subtler nuances of her manner. Right now, her tone and expression were subdued. She wanted to discuss a serious subject, and was not altogether comfortable doing so.
Oddly, Archer realized he was completely comfortable in her presence. It certainly hadn’t started out that way: she’d been an interloper, a spy for the Vulcans, cool and full of veiled verbal barbs at human frailty.
It hadn’t helped either, that she’d been strikingly, exotically beautiful. Normally, Archer wouldn’t have given her a second glance—he was accustomed to working with females, beautiful or not, and had no problem maintaining a professional attitude. So he didn’t understand why he noticed T’Pol’s attractiveness, and was uncomfortable around it; he decided, finally, that it was the fact that, unlike human women, she was utterly unaware of her beauty. It must have been the innocence; and in time, the effect wore off (or at least, the Captain convinced himself that it did).
Archer had gotten used to her, at the same time that she had gotten used to him and the rest of the crew. Either her attitude had done a one-eighty, or his had—but the fact was, despite the cultural differences, they had each come to respect each other.
“Ensign Mayweather says we’re two days from Vulcan,” she began.
She was unhappy about leaving Enterprise, Archer assumed; or maybe he was simply projecting his own feelings onto her. He wanted to do what he could to make things easier for her. He smiled warmly, and gestured. “Why don’t you sit down?”
She sat, lean, long hands on her knees, her spine as always ramrod-straight, on the couch; Archer sat across from her.
“Just think,” he said, meaning to cheer her up. “In two days, you’ll be eating real Vulcan food.”
The statement failed to have the effect he desired; she glanced down and away, an indication that his words only made what she had come to say more difficult. “Chef has done an adequate job of approximating Vulcan cuisine,” she replied noncommitally.
“Well,” Archer said with a heartiness he did not feel, “you never did care for the way we smell…. At least you won’t have to put up with that anymore.”
She looked up at him at last. “I’ve gotten used to it.”
“How about all those emotions we bombard you with every day?” Archer was reaching desperately for something positive about T’Pol’s departure, but she didn’t seem to want to cooperate.
“I’ve grown accustomed to that as well…” She paused, then qualified her claim. “Somewhat.”
“You’re not making this easy,” Archer said frankly.
“There’s gotta be something you’re looking forward to back home.”
She blinked, and parted her lips before blinking—for T’Pol, Archer had come to realize, the subtle gesture was equivalent to an emotional outburst in a human. “I don’t wish to return to Vulcan,” she said. “I want to remain on Enterprise…if you’ll allow me to.”
He stared at her; he would have been no more startled if she had collapsed in giggles. Vulcans did what
Vulcans were told to do, and that was that. Vulcans never questioned authority; tradition and obedience were, to them, everything. “It’s not a question of my allowing you,” he said, when he found his voice. “The High Command would never agree to it.”
“I’ve decided to resign my commission,” she said.
His jaw dropped at that particular bombshell. T’Pol’s parents and grandparents and great-grandparents, ad infinitum, had all been diplomats; for her to give up her career would be an unthinkable act of rebellion. And she had dedicated years of her life to that pursuit; was she truly willing now, to throw it all away?
“Why?” he asked, so stunned his voice dropped almost to a whisper. He recovered himself, then added, “You’ve worked so hard, T’Pol…”
Her tone was even and resolute; she had thought this through very carefully. “You’re taking Enterprise into a very dangerous place. This is no time for me to leave.”
Archer was touched beyond words. She was giving up something of supreme importance to her, even risking being disowned by family and friends, out of pure loyalty to him…and to the crew. “We’ll be all right,” he said warmly.
But she was past the point of being dissuaded. “You’ll need a science officer…whether she’s a member of the High Command or not.”
“I’ve been thinking about who to promote…” Archer tried to counter, but she stopped him in a manner that either human or Vulcan could only describe as impassioned.
“You need me, Captain.”
He couldn’t contradict that. He could only stare at her a long while, with utter gratitude—and then he exited to the bridge before he was reduced to an emotional display that would only have embarrassed them both.
T’Pol followed him out.
Archer stepped up behind Mayweather, who was minding the helm.
“Keeping away from those Klingons isn’t going to be as easy as we thought,” the Captain said.
The Expanse Page 7