The Expanse

by J. M. Dillard

  “I must’ve been in the shower for two hours,” Trip complained amiably, “and I still have that crap in my hair, under my nails…” He squinted down at his hands, and the faint blue crescents under each fingernail.

  Reed shrugged. His voice reflected exhaustion, as well, and the absence of tension that came from completing a dangerous mission successfully. “We cleared bio-scan. That’s all that matters.”

  “The two new guys who got hurt, are they okay?” It occurred to Trip that he’d been awfully absorbed in himself lately, and not very concerned about others.

  Reed nodded. “Doc’s got them back in their quarters already.”

  Trip was happy to hear the news; he’d felt pretty guilty about so many people risking their lives to save him. “You gotta admit, their team did a pretty impressive job down there.” He said it without thinking of the impact it might have on Malcolm—until he saw the change in Reed’s expression.

  Oops. More than a bit of professional competition going on there. Trip backed off as fast as he could. “Nothing your guys couldn’t have done just as well,” he added swiftly.

  Reed sighed; the look of jealousy faded as he clearly struggled to be self-honest. “I’m not so sure about that,” he said, his tone rueful. “They were impressive.” He paused as they came to a fork in the corridor. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Trip continued on and made his way to sickbay, where the doctor was working at his station. He glanced up as Trip entered, and graced him with one of his exaggerated Denobulan smiles.

  “How are you feeling, Commander?”

  “Blue,” Trip deadpanned.

  Phlox caught the joke immediately. “I assume you’re referring to the trellium dust.”

  Trip grimaced slightly. “You can still see it, can’t you?”

  Phlox’s smile and tone grew gentle. “All I see is a very exhausted chief engineer. You should get yourself a good night’s sleep.”

  Trip remembered the previous night’s dream of Lizzie full force; fighting to keep the panic from his voice, he asked, “You said you’d give me something, remember?”

  Phlox nodded gravely. “Very well.”

  He loaded a hypospray, then moved to Trip and pressed the cold metal against the engineer’s neck. There came a hiss; Trip felt nothing as the medicine penetrated his skin.

  Phlox lowered the hypo, then lifted a padd from the counter. “If you wouldn’t mind, Commander…I promised T’Pol I’d take these bio-scans to her quarters. But I still have quite a bit of work to do here.”

  “No problem, Doc.” Smiling faintly, Trip took the padd. Between the hypospray and the extreme exhaustion, he was looking forward to a full night’s sleep. “Thanks.”

  The instant Commander Tucker left sickbay, Phlox moved to the nearest companel and tapped a control. “Sickbay to T’Pol.” He kept his voice low, lest someone should overhear. While he did not like indulging in subterfuge with his patients—or of forcing unwilling others to join in that subterfuge with him—Phlox knew of no better way to help the Commander.

  T’Pol’s voice, always level and even in pitch, filtered through the grid. “Yes, Doctor?”

  “Commander Tucker’s on his way to your quarters,” Phlox warned her. “He believes I just gave him a sedative, but it was only a placebo.” He paused. “He’s had a rather difficult day. I believe you have your work cut out for you.”

  He ended the communication at once, before she had a chance to protest.

  The door to T’Pol’s quarters slid open to reveal a sight that disconcerted Trip more than a little: the Vulcan, her unmistakably feminine form covered by a close-fitting pair of pajamas, on top of which lay an open satin robe. Behind her, the room was deep in shadow, lit only by a few wavering candles.

  He’d noticed that T’Pol was female before, of course—he’d have to have been dead not to; calling her attractive would have been an understatement. But for some reason that night, she seemed particularly…well, vulnerable. He noticed, for the first time, that she had let her hair grow out.

  He cleared his throat, and handed her the padd, all business. “Sorry to drop by so late, but Phlox said you were expecting this.” He did not meet her gaze.

  “Thank you.” She took the padd without looking at it, then paused. “Please…” She took a step back into the room, and gestured awkwardly for him to enter. “Come in.”

  Trip couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d burst into giggles. T’Pol never socialized with the crew, and despite his “movie nights” invites she had never sought out Trip. He couldn’t imagine why she would invite him in except…

  Nah. It had to be male ego talking. She couldn’t be coming on to him.

  Even so, he was embarrassed. Doing his best to hide it, he said casually, “I don’t think I’d be very good company right now.” He glanced down at his fingernails. “Anyway, I’d probably stain your furniture. I still have a few more showers to take before I get all this trellium off me.”

  She would not take the excuse. “Please,” she said, in a confidential tone. “There’s something I’d like to ask you.”

  The request startled him; T’Pol was the type to consult the computer on any questions she had about humans. At her most desperate, she might resort to asking Doctor Phlox. But maybe…Trip dismissed the idea that she was flirting with him as far too unlikely, and decided that perhaps she had a question that only a human could answer.

  Even so, he was hardly comfortable entering the room; with its candles and meditation pillow, it looked like an intimate little shrine.

  T’Pol gestured to a chair; he took it, and she sat opposite him.

  “What’s up?” he asked. Vulcans, after all, liked to be direct.

  Her question took him aback. “Do you feel my rank is still fitting?”

  Trip blinked. “Beg your pardon?”

  “Captain Archer asked me to continue serving as his first officer.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Trip said. He didn’t see what the problem was.

  T’Pol hesitated. “But now that I’m no longer a member of the High Command, I’m not certain whether the rank of sub-commander is appropriate.” She paused. “I’d like your opinion.”

  Trip found the question strange. They were on one of the most important missions in history, one that meant life or death for billions. For T’Pol to be worrying about her rank at a time like this seemed…well, petty. Even so, he did his best to consider the question.

  “I don’t know,” he replied at last. “You could always ask the Captain to give you a field commission…Make you a Starfleet officer…Commander T’Pol…That’s not too different than sub-commander.”

  T’Pol’s dark eyes, rendered exotic by high, upward-slanting cheekbones, regarded him intently for a moment. She seemed to be waiting for something. After another uncomfortable moment, she said, “I’ll consider that. Thank you.”

  He expected her to rise, to dismiss him. When she did not, he shifted his weight a bit nervously in the chair.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.

  This was getting weirder by the minute. “Thanks,” Trip said, “but it might keep me up. The doctor just gave me a sedative.” It was a pretty broad hint that it was time for him to leave, but instead, she took it as a conversation opener.

  “You’re having trouble sleeping as well?”

  He looked at her in honest surprise. “I never would’ve pegged you as an insomniac.”

  She gave a short nod. “I believe the Expanse has been disrupting my REM patterns.”

  “Probably nothing a good hypospray won’t cure.” There. Now they both had an excuse to leave her quarters.

  But she had an answer for that, too. “Vulcan science teaches us to prompt our bodies to create their own medicines.”

  “So why’re you still having trouble sleeping?”

  “The neural nodes that need to be stimulated are difficult to reach.” She rose and turned her back to him; the robe slipped fr
om her shoulders. “Perhaps you could help me.”

  Trip became aware his mouth had dropped open, and immediately closed it. The thought that she was coming on to him returned full force. “I really don’t know if I can—”

  Before he could make his escape, she knelt in front of his chair, facing away from him. “Three centimeters on either side of the fifth vertebra,” she stated expectantly as she unbuttoned her pajama top; she lowered it, exposing her back to him.

  Trip felt himself flush all the way to his hairline.

  “You can apply considerable pressure,” T’Pol said, waiting.

  Trip hesitated. Maybe this was on the level; maybe she had just needed someone to perform this Vulcan technique on her. But if that was the case, why hadn’t she simply gone to Phlox? And why come up with the phony dilemma about her rank?

  He decided to go along with it anyway. He ran a finger along the bare skin covering her spine, and drew in a silent breath. He had never touched a Vulcan before; he hadn’t known their skin was so warm. He began to murmur, “I’m not sure which of these is…”

  “Right there,” T’Pol said.

  Trip touched the spot again to confirm it. “Right here.” He placed his thumbs on either side of her spine and gently pressed.

  “A little closer together,” T’Pol directed.

  Trip shifted his thumbs in closer.

  “Harder,” she said.

  He pressed harder. He expected her to buckle slightly against the pressure, but she held her ground; she was very strong.

  “Harder,” she insisted.

  “If I push much harder,” he protested, “I’ll knock you over.”

  She said nothing, so he pressed harder—and she didn’t budge so much as a millimeter.

  “Just like that,” she said. “Please continue…”

  Trip complied. After a beat, she let go a deep breath—almost a moan—and Trip felt her body relax. He felt himself blush again at the sound; this was getting way too personal.

  T’Pol turned slowly to face him. “That was far more effective than a hypospray.” She pulled up her pajama top and began to button it.

  “Glad to be of assistance,” Trip said, in his best Boy Scout, ours-is-a-platonic-relationship manner.

  T’Pol stood. “It would be only fair for me to return the favor.” She paused, then said flatly, “Please disrobe.”

  That was the final straw; Trip was on his feet in a flash. “I’m really flattered, Sub-Commander—it’s okay to call you Sub-Commander, right? And don’t think that under different circumstances I wouldn’t jump at the chance to—”

  T’Pol interrupted, an expression of disbelief on her face. “Are you implying that I’m making sexual advances?”

  Maybe he’d misunderstood: Right. Just misunderstood. Regardless of what the truth was, Trip just wanted out of there, and fast. “No, no, not at all,” he lied. “I…I was just…you see, the doc gave me this sedative and I think it’s starting to…”

  She cut him off again. “The doctor injected you with a placebo. He sent you here because he wanted me to persuade you to try Vulcan neuropressure. As I predicted, it was a pointless exercise.” The strange awkwardness had fled her tone, replaced by a flat adamance: she clearly was displeased with herself for misleading someone.

  Trip first felt an enormous sense of relief: This was the Vulcan he knew, direct and matter-of-fact, anything but intentionally seductive. His relief was quickly followed by outright anger at Phlox’s subterfuge. What right did the Denobulan have to embarrass him and T’Pol like this (though she would never admit to such an emotion)? “Why didn’t he just ask me?!” Trip demanded heatedly.

  “He did,” T’Pol countered. “This morning. You refused.”

  Trip had no memory of Phlox mentioning anything about a Vulcan technique—but then, his mind had been utterly elsewhere that morning. He’d been tense, focused on the upcoming mission, obsessing about Lizzie, about the possibility of encountering a Xindi. Maybe he’d been too quick to dismiss the doc’s suggestion—if he’d even registered it—but that still didn’t excuse the elaborate deception.

  “So this whole thing”—his bringing T’Pol the padd, her claiming insomnia and asking him to perform the technique on her—“was just a setup!”

  No wonder T’Pol had behaved so oddly, so out of character. She made a lousy liar. And here he’d gone and insinuated that she was making a pass at him…

  “The doctor knows how intransigent you can be,” T’Pol remarked.

  Trip bristled at the term. “Intransigent?”

  The Vulcan missed the outrage in his tone and explained, “Unwilling to try something new.”

  “I know what it means,” Trip snapped. “But it just so happens it’s not true. I’m as willing to try new things as anyone else.”

  T’Pol took a step toward him. “Then take off your shirt.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it again, forced into silence, frustrated by the realization that he’d just allowed himself to be backed into a corner.

  Damned good negotiator, that T’Pol; he wondered if she’d learned that little trick at the Vulcan Embassy. They both knew he couldn’t argue with her logic. And of course, the question he now had to ask himself was, why would he want to? He’d wanted help sleeping, and here was the method Doctor Phlox thought was best; why was he fighting it?

  Trip let go an inaudible sigh of surrender and began to remove his shirt; even so, he shot T’Pol a scathing glance to let her know he wasn’t pleased by her verbal tactics.

  He set the shirt on the chair, then knelt with his back toward her, the intimacy of the situation provoking more than a little discomfort in him.

  There was a soft rustling of fabric as she knelt behind him; at the sudden touch of her fingers, fever-warm upon his skin, he fought not to shudder. The room became so silent, he could hear the soft, regular sound of her breathing mixed with his own.

  She pressed with a strength that was remarkable—greater than his, if not more so, and despite the oddness of the situation, Trip felt his entire body relax suddenly, deeply. The anger he had felt toward Phlox dissolved, replaced by gratitude toward T’Pol.

  The Doctor had put her in a very difficult position, and Trip’s accusation that she was flirting with him certainly couldn’t have made things any easier for her. She had every right to throw him out of her quarters, to give up—and yet she had persisted, beyond the point of personal discomfort and humiliating accusations, in order to help him.

  She really was an amazing woman…and apparently unaware of her striking beauty. Trip almost chuckled to himself: What kind of an idiot had he been, thinking she was making a pass at him? Why, any man on board this ship would thank his lucky stars just to have her look his way…Ever since the first day he’d seen her—

  Stop, Trip censored himself silently. Stop it right now. She’s a fellow officer, damn it, and what’s more, she’s Vulcan…

  He fought not to interpret her touch upon his skin as sensual, and failed entirely.

  Chapter 16

  Archer stood on the Enterprise bridge and felt the deck shudder ever so slightly as the ship dropped from warp to impulse power; on the main viewscreen, the stars ceased their streaming and crystallized into separate, individual orbs. The screen panned until one particular distant star was in sharp focus.

  The Captain was not the only one on his feet: Trip and Reed stood nearby, joining the usual complement of T’Pol, Hoshi, and Mayweather. All of them gazed intently at the flickering star.

  “Tactical Alert,” Archer ordered Reed. “Stand by weapons.”

  The Captain had spent the previous night dreaming—restless, anxious dreams of the Xindi planet, several of them, all with different outcomes.

  In one, Enterprise had arrived at Kessick’s coordinates only to find a duplicate Earth. The ship had sailed into spacedock, where Trip Tucker’s sister waved, smiling, at them. Admiral Forrest was waiting there, too, and for some reason, Archer could hear him
as he said, You’ve been away far too long, Jon.

  And his dad, Henry Archer, was busy being interviewed by a throng of reporters; he’d paused in midsentence to tell them, There he is—there’s my son!

  On the bridge, Trip had been angry, weeping. Don’t trust them! It’s all a trick. They want us to think they’re human. We’ve got to kill them, kill them all now…!

  T’Pol, in her diplomat’s uniform, turning toward him slowly. I must concur with Commander Tucker’s assessment.

  A second dream had followed swiftly, a brief one in which Enterprise had arrived at the Xindi planet, only to find a planet filled with beautiful, gleaming cities…and not a single soul. A ghost planet…

  Archer had awakened, pulse pounding, the image of Enterprise being blown to bits in his mind.

  If they truly were going to find the Xindi homeworld, he’d worried, how would he protect his people? The Xindi were clearly technologically advanced; how close dared Enterprise come to their planet without putting her crew in danger?

  How did Archer know an entire army wasn’t waiting?

  There was, of course, no way to know what awaited them. He’d known going into this mission that there were no guarantees, only hope.

  The ship went to Tactical Alert; Archer turned to Reed again. “Any indications that we’re being scanned?”

  Reed manipulated several controls on his console, then consulted the readout; his eyebrows lifted in surprise, he gazed back up at the Captain. “No, sir. No vessels, no signs of technology…nothing.”

  This was becoming uncomfortably like one of his dreams; Archer turned toward T’Pol, who was leaning over her viewer.

  “How many inhabited planets?” he asked.

  She did not look up, but continued to study the readout.

  “I’m not detecting any planets, inhabited or otherwise.”

  Archer felt a flare of pure rage. “That son of a bitch lied to us…”

  Trip’s voice revealed both disappointment and denial. “Phlox said the Xindi used his dying breath to give us these coordinates. Why would he lie?”