“But the Romulans are obviously up to no good, Captain.” Trip’s earlier frustrated tone had returned full force. “And I’d wager that they aren’t going to just sit on their hands until the Coalition has finished dotting all its i’s and crossing all its t’s.”
“Do you suppose, Commander,” T’Pol said with her customary coolness, “that your opinion regarding the Romulans might have been shaded by your recent brush with death inside one of their drone ships?”
Trip regarded her in contemplative silence for a long moment, frowning. At length, he said, “Well, I won’t deny that that incident got my attention, big‑time. But it doesn’t undercut the possibility that the Romulans have just collected enough Aenar telepaths to pull the same trick again, dozens of times, and in dozens of places. In my book, that fact alone puts them on a very short list of nominees for the next big threat against Earth.”
Archer couldn’t disagree, though he still had to admit that he, Trip, and Shran still could neither prove anything nor sway the powers that be to take any preventive action.
Recalling the suddenness of the horrific Xindi attack, Archer hoped it wouldn’t already be too late by the time his superiors finally became convinced.
Lying on the narrow bed in his quarters, his shoulders propped up by a pile of none‑too‑soft Starfleet‑issue pillows, Archer idly tossed a water‑polo ball against one of the four walls of his spartan cabin. Lying in the far corner with his face on his outstretched paws, Archer’s beagle Porthos watched the captain intently.
T’Pol was standing beside Archer, resolutely refusing, as usual, to sit in either of the room’s two simple, gray Starfleet‑issue chairs. He wondered if his first officer found the chairs uncomfortable or if she wasn’t simply trying to keep her distance from Porthos, whose scent she had often said she found disagreeable.
“If we’re late for the ceremony, it will have farreaching consequences,” she said finally, clearly not content to leave the matter of the Aenar mass kidnapping alone until Archer had resolved it one way or the other.
Archer frowned, annoyed to be reminded yet again of the impending diplomatic event on Earth. “If Shran hadn’t helped us, I never would’ve gotten aboard the Xindi weapon. Have you forgotten that? This alliance is based on friendship and loyalty–exactly what Shran is looking for right now.”
After a beat of silence, she said, very quietly, “I don’t trust him.”
“You don’t trust Andorians,” he said, his annoyance escalating another notch. “The Vulcan Council is a little more enlightened. If they’rewilling to forge an alliance with Andoria, the least youcan do is give Shran the benefit of the doubt.”
Though her Vulcan poise seemed to remain in place, Archer sensed that she was shrinking from his words, rebuked. He tried to soften his tone somewhat as he continued, “When we met four years ago, I didn’t trust you. For that matter, I didn’t trust anyVulcans. You helped me get past that, remember?” He paused, struggling for the words that would best explain the decision he’d just made. “I can’t turn my back on him, T’Pol. Try to understand.”
“I’ll try,” she said.
Porthos chose that moment to leap up onto the bed and into Archer’s lap with an enthusiastic woof.The captain tossed the water‑polo ball aside and gave the beagle an affectionate scratch between the ears. T’Pol quietly edged away from Porthos, though she seemed to be making a concerted effort to be discreet about showing her persistent aversion to the dog.
Setting Porthos aside, Archer rose from the bed and crossed to the room’s small refrigeration unit, from which he extracted several small morsels of sharp cheddar cheese. He tossed them to Porthos, one at a time, and each piece vanished before hitting the deck, like skeet being launched and vaporized on a MACO phase‑rifle range. Porthos sat up, his tail thumping against the deck in gratitude, his dark eyes regarding Archer expectantly.
“That’s all for today. Phlox says you need to watch your serum cholesterol.”
The beagle half growled and half whined in disappointment as Archer walked to the wall‑mounted com unit beside which T’Pol was standing. He pushed the large button in the panel’s center.
“Archer to Lieutenant O’Neill.”
“O’Neill here, sir,”came the third watch commander’s crisp reply.
Archer’s eyes locked with T’Pol’s.
“Change our heading, Lieutenant. We’re going into Andorian space. Best speed.”
“Sir?”
“I want to follow the trail of that Orion slave ship. Ensign Sato will inform Shran and Theras. Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed will coordinate our efforts with theirs. Shran will provide us with the vessel’s warp‑signature profile for our sensor scans.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Archer out.” He pressed the button again, closing the channel, then headed for the door.
“Captain,” T’Pol said.
He turned to face her, pausing in the open doorway. “Yes?”
“Permission to speak freely, sir?”
“Always.” He stepped back toward her.
“I can’t help but wonder whether you had already made your mind up to help Shran before you contacted Admiral Gardner.”
Archer allowed himself an enigmatic smile. “I can see how it might look that way.”
“Indeed. Especially given the fact that you never came right out and asked the admiral for his permission to investigate the mass Aenar kidnapping.”
“I suppose you also noticed that Gardner never exactly ordered me notto go after the slavers. All he said was that he couldn’t order me to do it.”
She raised an eyebrow and a look rather like a smirk twisted her lips. “I will remember to mention that when I appear as a character witness at your court‑martial.”
Archer couldn’t have been more stunned had she drawn a phase pistol on him and fired. “That’s remarkable, T’Pol. Did you…did you just make a joke?”
“For your sake, sir, I certainly hope so.”
Was that another one?he thought as he opened his door again. He let his enigmatic smile glide right into a mischievous grin as he walked back into the doorway.
“Sometimes,” he said over his shoulder as T’Pol followed him, “it’s a lot easier to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission.”
As he entered the corridor and headed toward the central turbolift that led to the bridge, he wryly considered one day proposing that aphorism as a new Starfleet regulation.
Ten
Monday, February 10, 2155
Enterprise NX‑01
MALCOLM REED WATCHED as Tucker raised the shot glass toward the broad crew mess hall window as though toasting the still mostly unexplored interstellar wilderness that lay beyond it. He drained it in a single swallow, appearing to relish the way it burned as it went down. He set the empty glass onto the tabletop with a resounding thwackbeside the bottle of Skagaran Lone Star tequila.
“I think that stuff might do a better job of scrubbing your plasma conduits than whatever it is you’re using now, Trip,” Reed said. Besides Commander Tucker, Reed thought he might well be the only other off‑duty soul still awake at this ungodly hour. Malcolm had also ceased filling his own shot glass perhaps ten minutes earlier, leaving it upended before him in a silent gesture of surrender.
“I think maybe I’ll pass your suggestion along to Lieutenant Burch,” Trip said, making a sour face as he pushed both the bottle and his own glass closer to the center of the tabletop. “Besides, a hangover probably won’t make me any more persuasive to Admiral Gardner, or anybody else in Starfleet Command. Hell, T’Pol didn’t want to hear me out even when I was sober.”
Reed thought Trip’s decision to forgo the remaining tequila was a wise one. But he also knew that the decisions that lay ahead would require a good deal more than just wisdom.