The Destroyer

Chapter 11

His skin was far cooler than it should be, and subtle tremors shook his body as it struggled to regain equilibrium. The realization that he was relying completely upon her caused T’Pol to abandon Vulcan propriety and act on instinct. With quick motions, she rolled him onto his side so he faced away from her before inching closer to him so she could hug his back. It would be, she suspected, far safer for the both of them if she were behind him in their present state of undress given Tucker’s evident inability to control his body. Her breath caught slightly at the sensation of his bare skin against her equally uncovered breasts. It was something she had never before experienced, a fact she knew Tucker would, with his many … exploits, find difficult to believe. Humans, with their behavior so utterly rooted in the desire for s*x, seemed incapable of comprehending that Vulcans were biologically inclined toward monogamy and simply did not engage in recreational intercourse outside of marriage. T’Pol had matured knowing that, when it became necessary, her mate’s blood fever would infect her and she would instinctively react as nature intended for her to. That Koss’ pon farr had never materialized despite their age – a rare, but not entirely unheard of condition for members of his bloodline – had simply given her more time to focus on what was truly important: her career. Now, however, she found herself unable to concentrate on anything else but the proximity of the male before her and their lack of clothing.

This was all Tucker’s fault.

With nothing else to do but wait, T’Pol focused her eyes on the flickering flame in the small wood stove across the small room and let herself slip into a meditative state. The part of her mind that always remained active noticed the reappearance of Erela twenty-three minutes later to add more fuel to the fire. Based on the change in ambient noises of the house, T’Pol suspected that the inclement weather outside had intensified; wind rattled the windows and doors, and she could hear a steady drumbeat of frozen rain clattering against the roof. Erela was gone from the room bare minutes later, once more leaving them alone.

The comfort of an actual bed combined with Charles’ reassuring presence crept up on her, and before she realized it, her meditation became actual sleep as her exhausted body demanded a respite. Her keen awareness of the room faded into the sheer bliss of warmth and a cushioned mattress.

“T’Pol.” Commander Tucker’s tense voice, so close to her ear, instantly roused her some time later, and she instinctively reached for the phase pistol she’d secreted under the pillow. Opening her eyes, T’Pol realized that they had evidently shifted in their sleep – once more, Charles was on his back and she was resting halfway atop him, her head resting on his chest and her arm draped across his naked chest. Their legs were intertwined in a surprisingly intimate manner, but her brain – still not yet fully awake – failed register this as important or even particularly unusual. In the past week, she’d grown accustomed to waking in such a manner, though it was usually on the rough ground with the damp tent dripping on their faces. Panic was bright in Tucker’s eyes, and he was much, much redder than normal, as if he were caught in the grip of some overwhelming emotion. “Where are my clothes?” he asked desperately, but plunged on without waiting for her response. “Where are your clothes?”

“You were hypothermic,” she answered, exhaustion from twenty days of almost nonstop stress stripping her of the will to move. There was nothing more that she wanted to do in this moment than remain exactly where she was. Not for long, though. Just a week or so, until she was fully rested. She could hear the wail of fierce wind clearly, and the entire room was much darker than before, implying a worsening of outside conditions. The lucid part of her mind reflected that this boded well for them as any potential pursuers would be severely hampered by the weather. A chill was in the air, despite the still active stove, and T’Pol could smell the pleasant aroma coming from the burning wood within it. “This was the most efficient way to raise your body temperature,” she added in a voice thick with sleep. Her eyes closed once more but Tucker’s reply was a strangled half-laugh that caused her to shift slightly.

And, in doing so, she freed a fully … erect part of his anatomy that had been trapped against her stomach.

Quite suddenly, T’Pol was wide awake.

“Oh, God,” Charles groaned as he rolled away from her awkwardly. At the same time, T’Pol felt her face flame as she retreated to her side of the bed. “Just when I thought this day couldn’t get any damned worse,” Tucker mumbled, though her sharp hearing made out the words. “I’m sorry,” he added.

“It was an instinctive, biological reaction,” she told him, smoothing away most hints of embarrassment from her features. Her ears continued to burn, though, and she was silently thankful that he was facing away from her so she wouldn’t have to look into his eyes. “No apology is necessary.”

For a long moment, silence was her only answer until it was broken by a curious gasping sound emerging from Tucker. Coming so close to his fall into the freezing lake, the sound instantly concerned her – it could an indication of a deeper respiratory problem and they still didn’t know how trustworthy these natives were – and T’Pol stretched out a tentative hand to his shoulder. At her light touch, he half-turned his head in her direction, revealing the source of the sound.

He was laughing.

Or, more accurately, he was trying to keep from doing so and, judging by the strain in his eyes, failing miserably. The moment he looked upon her, Tucker seemed to give up and began chortling. It was a deep, wheezing sound that had a ragged, almost hysterical edge to it, as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or sob. Given the extreme stress they had been under for weeks and his most recent brush with death, Tucker’s reaction was actually quite understandable for a human. Tears sprang from his eyes as he giggled, and she suspected he was unable to stop himself if he wanted to. Charles’ eyes reflected his mortified amusement as they met T’Pol’s, and the humor of this latest situation they found themselves in caused her lips to quirk upwards fractionally.

Tucker’s laughter ended so abruptly it was as if a switch had been thrown. His eyes widened, and there was no mistaking the open wonder on his face as he stared at her.

“You smiled,” Charles breathed. T’Pol looked away, silently chastising herself for the loss of control.

“I have not meditated properly for weeks,” she admitted with a tight frown. “My self-control is not as it should be.”

“Don’t worry,” Tucker said, still staring at her with an expression of almost child-like awe she’d never seen before, “your secret’s safe with me.” He smiled before giving the room a glance. To her surprise, he didn’t ask about how they got where they were. “T’Pol,” he asked sheepishly, evidently unable to meet her eyes, “I’d really like to put some pants on now.” Once again, she felt her lips twitch, and she seriously considered telling him that their clothes had been destroyed simply to observe his reaction. Instead, she nodded.

“I shall retrieve a dry pair at once,” she replied as she started to slide from the bed. Immediately before she slipped from underneath the blankets, T’Pol felt his eyes on her and gave him a questioning look. He flushed and quickly turned away.

“I won’t peek,” he promised with a thicker than normal accent. “You have my word.” Mentally, T’Pol shook her head in bemusement at humans and their silly taboos. They gave no thought to the sheer intimacy of touch, yet seemed to regard the exposure of an unclothed body no matter how innocent the situation as inherently s****l.

Sometimes, they made less sense than Andorians.

“Can we trust these people?” Tucker asked once they had donned relatively dry underclothes. He was still shivering, despite the thick blankets atop him, and his skin was paler than it should be.

“I do not know,” T’Pol replied. “Roll over, Commander,” she instructed. He gave her a confused look. “You are still suffering from hypothermia,” she pointed out flatly. “Roll over.” With a sigh, he obeyed, once more facing the stove. He tensed when she slid closer to him. Wrapping her arms around him was, for a Vulcan, forward and inappropriately intimate, but she was far more concerned with helping him recover than her nonexistent virtue.

“I thought you Vulcans were phobic about touching,” he grumbled.

“We dislike extreme cold more,” she retorted crisply, causing him to chuckle.

“What’s our next step then?” Tucker asked a few moments later. He sounded as if he were on the verge of sleep once more.

“Until you … until we are better rested,” she decided calmly, her body and mind already drifting closer to slumber as well, “and know whether we can trust these natives, I suggest we play our cards close to our ears.”

“Close to our vest,” Tucker corrected absently, his own voice sounding sleepy, “or play it by ear.” He was silent for another long moment. “Just tell me what to do,” he murmured, “and I’ll do it.”

“Go to sleep, Charles,” T’Pol ordered. This close to him, she could hear his heartbeat in her ears, a steady, rhythmic lullaby that carried her to somnolence.

And, for the first time in a long time, her dreams were pleasant.

Fires were still raging across the colony.

His ears ringing from the explosions that had leveled the refining plant only seconds before, Jonathan Archer sprinted toward cover, his phase pistol held tightly in one hand. Disruptor fire screamed by his head, exploding against the already broken rocks where his first officer crouched, and he bit back a curse as spinning shrapnel tore into his uniform. As Jon threw himself forward and cleared the obstacle with a leaping dive, Lieutenant Commander Reed popped up from behind the rocks to provide cover fire.

Archer’s landing was rougher than he expected and the impact left him stunned, but the sharp smell of blood and smoke snapped him out of his momentary daze. He quickly scrambled to his feet and joined Reed at the stony embankment his armoury officer had chosen to use as a defensive position. The lieutenant commander barely acknowledged him, so intent was he on firing at the towering aliens now charging toward them.

“Where the hell did they come from?” Jon demanded as he drew a bead on one of the Klingons and squeezed the trigger of his pistol. The beam flashed out, slamming into the alien’s chest and dropping him with barely a sound. A wail of return fire splashed around the embankment, showering Archer and Reed with debris and superheated sand.

Only a few hours had passed since their arrival on the planet, and the sudden attack had caught them almost completely by surprise. There hadn’t been any hint of anything wrong until the Klingons suddenly materialized in the center of the colony and began shooting anything that moved. If it hadn’t been for Reed’s quick-thinking and quicker reflexes, Jon had little doubt he would have been one of the first casualties. Neither of them had been quick enough to save Crewman Cutler, though, and fury bubbled up from Archer’s stomach as he recalled how heroically she threw herself at the Klingon looming over a little alien boy she’d befriended since their arrival. She’d fallen quickly, victim of a disruptor blast at point-blank range, but her sacrifice had given the child time enough to escape.

Jon only hoped her death had been worth it.

Attempts to contact Enterprise had met with an ominous silence, though Archer hoped it was due to jamming rather than an inability to communicate. Far more worrisome, though, was that Travis was currently in command of NX-01. At the time, leaving the ensign to sit in the big chair for a few hours had seemed like a nice way to encourage Mayweather and give him a little bit of experience.

“We need to fall back from this position, sir,” Reed growled. He didn’t let up with his carefully aimed shots, dropping three Klingons to every one that Jon nailed. “They’re shaking off the stun setting too quickly.” Archer grimaced at that, finally noticing that the Klingon he’d shot earlier was slowly clambering back to his feet; a human would still be unconscious for several hours. “There’s an outcropping three meters behind us,” Reed continued as he shifted fire and targeted a barrel. The phase beam sliced into the metal container, but had no immediate effect. “When I give the signal, run for it,” the lieutenant commander instructed. Jon gave him a sidelong look, wondering if he should remind his acting first officer that it was the captain who gave the orders, not the armoury officer, but decided to hold his tongue. At the moment, survival was far more important than the chain-of-command. “Now!” Reed shouted as he fired again. This time, the barrel detonated like a bomb, hurling a pair of Klingons through the air as if they were little more than puppets.

Long seconds later, Jon slid into cover behind the outcropping Reed had identified like a runner stealing home plate. His breath was coming rapidly, and adrenaline raced through his veins. Movement drew his attention to his left, and he snapped the phase pistol around but managed to keep from firing as Lieutenant Commander Hess and Ensign Sato sprinted toward him, their own weapons hefted. A trio of Klingons pursued the two women, howling fierce cries, and Archer began firing rapidly. One of the aliens dropped like a stone, and the sheer volume of fire caused his two partners to dart for cover.

“Down!” Reed’s voice shouted a half second before he tackled Archer from behind. They hit the ground hard a half second before something metallic and sharp whizzed through where Jon’s head had been a heartbeat earlier. Malcolm rolled away, his phase pistol coming up and discharging a lethal stream of fire that burned into the throat of a Klingon who had apparently pursued them from their previous defensive dugout. The alien toppled, an overpowering stench of burned flesh following him, and Reed sprang to his feet. “Weapons on kill!” he snapped as he began covering Hess and Sato. “Stun isn’t working on them!”

Within seconds, the two women had joined them. Caked in sweat, dirt and what looked suspiciously like blood, they had terrified expressions on their face, but offered no complaint as they crouched behind the embankment, pistols at the ready. Jon gave them quick once-overs, noting with some surprise that Hoshi seemed to be in better shape emotionally than Anna Hess.

“Fall back!” Reed shouted as he knelt and retrieved the dead Klingon’s disruptor. He gestured toward another ditch with it before rising to his feet and opening fire with weapons in both hands like a gunslinger from one of Trip’s old movies. Jon followed suit, abandoning accuracy for sheer volume of fire, while Hoshi and Hess darted toward the cover Malcolm had pointed out. The two women were firing their weapons while on the run, hitting nothing that Archer could see, but definitely causing enough chaos that the Klingons sought cover.

“Captain, go!” Malcolm urged desperately. The British armoury officer was slowly backing away their previous cover, the weapons in his hand beginning to hiss from overuse. “I can’t cover you much longer!”

“We’re both going, Commander!” Archer retorted. “Now!”

They sprinted toward the ditch under a hail of disruptor fire that buzzed around them like furious hornets. As he raced toward cover, Jon instantly noticed that Hoshi was already kneeling, her phase pistol whining as she provided suppressive fire, but there was no sign of Lieutenant Commander Hess. White hot fire suddenly seemed to explode from the small of his back, and Archer screamed out in agonized surprise. He tumbled to the ground, but somehow let his momentum carry him into a roll that dropped him into the ditch.

“The captain’s been hit!” Hoshi shouted as Reed slid over the lip of the ditch and joined her in pouring fire into the cluster of attacking Klingons. Hess looked up from where she was crouched and, through the searing pain from where he’d been shot, Jon vaguely registered that she had broken open a communicator. Calling in reinforcements, a strangely lucid part of his mind reflected. Good girl.

“I can’t get through!” Hess said loudly, desperation starting to creep into her voice.

“Help the captain,” Malcolm snarled, “and get ready for another assault.”

Things got hazy after that as Jon swam in and out of consciousness. He could recall phase pistol fire, and disruptor fire, and explosions, and screams. Images flashed before his eyes, as if he were watching a slideshow. Hoshi in a martial arts pose before a Klingon male twice her size. Malcolm wielding a bloody knife. Anna with two disruptors in either hand, screaming like a banshee as she fired them. Two Klingons down in front of Hoshi, one writhing in agony and the other not moving at all. Reed surrounded, but showing no hint of fear. More explosions.

And then, silence.

His training hadn’t covered this.

A grimace on his face, Ensign Travis Mayweather glanced quickly at the sensor feed upon his control console and fought back a curse at how close the attacking Klingon ship was. The flight stick was still vibrating wildly as he drove Enterprise through another series of wild evasive maneuvers, but Travis ignored the threatened systems malfunction. All that mattered was the safety of his ship and the crew.

Until the armed freighter had roared over the planetary horizon, weapons already charged and ready for action, there had been no indication that there were any other starships in the system. Only Enterprise’s superior capabilities to the outclassed Klingon ship had kept the Starfleet vessel from being destroyed by the opening salvo. Bracketed by hostile fire, Enterprise had held up surprisingly well, and her crew had responded even better. They were breaking orbit and conducting evasive maneuvers well before the Klingon ship could reorient for a second pass, and Travis found himself immeasurably proud of his fellow crewmates for how quickly they reacted.

He shouldn’t have been surprised though; experience was a hard teacher.

The hard vacuum around the starship was suddenly alive with sizzling disruptor beams, brilliant cascades of emerald fire that burned through the darkness and sliced into Enterprise’s already battered hull plating. A geyser of molten metal exploded outward, the superheated fragments freezing almost instantly. Ominous alarms began shrieking the briefest of seconds later.

“Hull breach on C Deck!” the recently promoted Petty Officer Rostov shouted from where he stood at the damage control station. “Pressure doors sealing!”

“I can’t get a lock!” the acting weapons officer exclaimed, stress and panic in her voice. A crewman first class, Stacey Marino had only been manning the station when the Klingons suddenly appeared because she’d drawn the short straw. Though he had seen no real signs of it firsthand, Travis had learned through the ship’s rumor mill that Malcolm Reed was rabidly territorial over the weapons console. In order to avoid getting chewed out for even looking askance at a button or a dial, the members of the security detachment routinely competed against one another in order to determine who had the misfortune to stand watch on the bridge. Only last night, Marino had come in last place during the weekly hand-to-hand training sessions.

“Calm down,” Travis ordered sharply. “Let the targeting computer do its job.” He feathered the maneuvering thrusters, rolling Enterprise slightly as he began feeding more acceleration. “Stand by for an L-4 maneuver,” he added, before shooting Marino a quick look. “We’re only going to get one shot at this,” he said grimly, “so I’d really prefer it if you don’t miss.”

Before she could reply, he gave Enterprise her head, redlining her powerful impulse engines while pulling back hard on the flight stick. The pursuing Klingon ship immediately tried to replicate the maneuver, but – weighed down by bulky deuterium tanks – moved like the slow, clunky freighter it had become. Brief seconds later, Travis leveled out, completing the inside loop to place Enterprise directly aft of the Klingon starship. Like an ungainly bird, the hostile craft tried to shake them.

“Fire!” Mayweather ordered, and a half-second later, every one of Enterprise’s phase cannons opened up, spearing the ponderous Klingon ship with lethal fire. Spatial torpedoes leapt from the launch bays and slammed home against the freighter’s hull, detonating with spectacular explosions that ripped into the starship’s superstructure and sent shattered metal spinning into the darkness. Leaking atmosphere and trailing debris, the Klingon ship abruptly banked, still desperately trying to dodge Marino’s phase cannon fire. A moment later, the freighter sprang away at superluminal speeds.

“They’re going to warp!” Ensign Ling nearly shouted from the Science board, her jubilant words causing the rest of the crewmen and junior officers on the bridge to cheer.

“Quiet!” Travis snapped, twisting in his seat to focus on Ling. “I want the sensors monitored at all times,” he ordered quickly. “If they show back up, I need to know at once.” Before she could reply, he turned again, this time directing his comments to Rostov standing at the damage control board. “Is the transporter working?” he asked.

“Uh … I think so,” the engineering petty officer prevaricated, but Mayweather cut him.

“Don’t think,” he said quickly. “Find out.” To Marino, Travis added, “I want an armed security team assembled. Make sure they have a medic. If the transporter is working, they’re to beam down and find the captain.”

“Brown-outs all over D Deck,” Rostov interjected off his board.

“Then the transporter is out,” Mayweather decided. “Have your team use Shuttlepod Three,” he told Marino, “but get them down there now!”

“Yes, sir!” she answered quickly. Travis was already turning toward the communications station.

“Anything?” he asked, but Crewman Baird shook his head.

“Still nothing, sir,” the acting comm.-officer answered, a defensive edge creeping into his words as if he thought that Travis was attacking his work. From what Hoshi had said off-the-record about Baird, the man’s work was normally exemplary, but he had a dangerous tendency to fold like a lawn chair under pressure. The more urgent the situation, the quicker the crewman choked.

“Keep working,” Travis instructed, climbing to his feet as he spoke. “Ramos!” he called out, and the gamma-shift helmsman trotted forward. “Take over,” Mayweather said with a gesture to the navigator’s station. He gave Rostov a quick look. “And get me a damage report!”

Travis spent the next several minutes circling the situation table at the back of the bridge in an attempt to hide from the bridge crew how abjectly terrified he was and instead project an air of casual confidence. Lurking around the table was something Mayweather had seen the captain do on a couple of occasions, and the ex-Boomer quickly latched onto the older man’s example, knowing that he was fundamentally incapable of sitting in the command chair with an expression of disinterest like T’Pol had always done. Pacing back and forth behind the helmsman was always an option, but Travis knew how much that disconcerted him and didn’t want to distract Ramos. Travis was finishing his fifth circle around the table when Rostov joined him. The petty officer transferred his report to the table screen without needing to be asked.

“Ensign Taylor is running damage control from Engineering,” Rostov announced as he pointed to several danger zones, “and we’ve got four teams containing the fires on C Deck.” Travis nodded.

“The breach?”

“The pressure doors sealed in time,” Rostov said. “No casualties reported, but there are at least three crewmen trapped in their quarters until we can unseal them.” He frowned. “That gives us about four hours until their oxygen runs out.”

“Plenty of time,” Mayweather remarked with a smile. “Trip trained you guys well.” Rostov grinned broadly, but sobered.

“With your permission, sir,” he said, “I’d like to join the teams-”

“Go,” Travis interrupted, jerking his head toward the turbolift. “Just send me updated status reports every ten minutes.”