The Destroyer

Chapter 10

The door slid open with an ominous hiss.

Holding a PADD before him as if it could afford him some protection, Malcolm Reed stepped into the captain’s ready room. As he expected, his commanding officer was standing before the viewport and staring at the streaking of the stars beyond, a bleak expression on his face. Archer’s eyes shifted slightly, jumping from the stars to Malcolm’s reflection in the viewport before quickly returning to the starfield.

“Report,” the captain ordered.

“We’ve altered course, sir,” Reed replied quickly. “Ensign Mayweather estimates eight to ten days to the deuterium colony,” he added. Archer nodded, but offered no reply. Instead, his gaze seemed locked entirely upon the darkness beyond the viewport. Dark circles ringed the captain’s eyes, aging him a decade or more, and Malcolm realized for the first time how old the other man appeared. Shame bubbled up within Reed’s stomach, and he bit back a soft curse when he realized that Hoshi had been right when she intimated that the captain desperately needed someone to talk to.

“He just lost two friends, Malcolm,” the communications officer had said during breakfast. Travis, who never seemed far from Hoshi’s side these days, nodded in silent agreement as Sato continued. “I’m worried about him,” she had admitted, the words of concern causing Mayweather to grimace slightly and look away, though Hoshi didn’t seem to notice. “All he does is study the data from that planet over and over,” she pointed out. At the time, Reed had still been struggling with his own grief over Trip’s apparent death – despite Phlox’s continued assertion that the two errant officers were alive, Malcolm couldn’t see how they would have survived, and he’d been a pessimist for too long to grasp at straws – but now, seeing the captain like this, he had to admit that Sato was right.

Perhaps sensing Malcolm’s silent appraisal of him, Captain Archer shifted his attention from the starfield and slowly turned to face Reed, frowning slightly.

“Is there anything else, Mister Reed?” Archer asked, the formality of his words as big an indication of his mood as his physical appearance.

“Actually, Captain, there is,” Malcolm replied. He straightened his back, once more wishing that he were a couple centimeters taller. “The senior officers are concerned about you, sir.” At the captain’s obvious surprise, Reed pressed on. “You aren’t sleeping, you aren’t eating-”

“That will be all, Lieutenant Commander,” Archer snapped, glowering darkly as he spoke. Malcolm frowned.

“With all due respect, sir,” he retorted coolly, locking gazes with his superior and refusing to back down, “it will not.” The captain blinked in surprise at Reed’s sudden aggression. “You said it yourself, Captain: as officers, we’re supposed to set an example for the rest of the crew. How does killing yourself with guilt look to everyone?” Archer looked away, remorse stamped upon his face, and Malcolm played his trump card. “The crew needs you, sir.”

For a moment, Reed wondered if he had gone too far. In the time he’d served under Archer, he’d learned that the captain did not like being told that he was wrong – T’Pol particularly had suffered the brunt of the man’s wrath in the early days of Enterprise’s mission. To Malcolm’s surprise, however, Archer’s harsh expression crumpled and he dropped into his chair, exhaustion so obviously riding his shoulders that Reed wanted to yawn.

“You’re right,” the captain murmured with a deep sigh. He leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. “It’s a bad habit of mine – to get so focused on something I forget about everything else.” Archer smiled – or grimaced, Malcolm couldn’t quite tell which – and sighed again. “Target fixation, they used to call it,” he said. “I relied on Trip to slap some sense into me.”

“Say the word, sir,” Reed said with a forced smile of his own, “and I’ll be glad to slap you around. For the good of the crew, of course.”

“Of course,” Archer repeated, the grim despair that had been surrounding him easing fractionally. “Thank you, Malcolm,” he said, before narrowing his eyes and studying Reed for a heartbeat. “You’re the last person I’d have expected to stage an intervention,” the captain remarked, and Malcolm shifted awkwardly.

“Ensign Sato suggested I say something, sir,” he admitted. Archer chuckled.

“Well, she was right.” The captain gestured to the nearby couch, and Reed hesitantly took a seat without actually relaxing. “Since Trip is gone,” Archer continued, staring at the blank monitor before him, “I’m going to need someone to remind me when I’m getting tunnel vision.”

“I can’t replace Commander Tucker, sir,” Malcolm said softly, swallowing the lump that lodged in his throat.

“No one can,” Archer replied, blinking rapidly. He looked away from Reed, and Malcolm guessed that the older man was fighting tears. It was, after all, what he was doing. “I can’t believe he’s gone,” the captain whispered.

“Phlox doesn’t think he’s dead,” Reed pointed out. His breath caught at the sharp look the captain pinned him with.

“Do you?” Archer demanded. Almost at once, Trip’s voice echoed in Malcolm’s ears: you’re a regular grim reaper. Reed tried not to wince.

“Yes, sir,” he said in response. He forced another smile on his face. “But then,” he added, “I thought we were going to die on Shuttlepod One too.” Malcolm shook his head. “If he were here, Trip would tell us to stop being so bloody cynical.”

“And T’Pol would argue with him,” the captain interjected, sudden amusement in his eyes. “She’d quote some ridiculous Vulcan rule or procedure that would piss him off.”

“Verbal foreplay,” Reed said automatically. He inhaled sharply the moment he realized what he had said – the rumors about the captain’s interest in T’Pol weren’t new, and Malcolm didn’t know how the older man would take to him implying that Trip had been interested in the Vulcan that way. Archer’s sudden bark of laughter came as a surprise.

“Sometimes,” the captain admitted with an actual smile, “I just wanted to lock them in a room together so they could figure out whether they wanted to kiss or to kill each other.” He chuckled. “You should have seen them eyeing each other when she told us about T’Mir.” Reed held his tongue, unsure what to say, but Archer didn’t seem to notice as he lost himself in memories. “I shouldn’t be surprised, though,” the captain said. “Trip always was attracted to difficult women.”

They sat there in silence for a long moment, and Malcolm struggled to find something to say that would break the tension rapidly growing between them. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the captain’s expression tightening, and could see the slow return of the dark mood that had been the entire point of Reed’s visit. Say something, you silly bugger, Malcolm told himself. Hoshi would kill him if he didn’t try to get the captain out of this funk.

“Sir?” Archer glanced up at his comment, and Reed drew in a breath before continuing. “How did you and Commander Tucker meet?” The captain smiled slightly.

“He didn’t tell you?” At Malcolm’s head shake, Archer leaned back in his chair once more. Reaching down to open a drawer on the desk, the captain pulled out a bottle and two small glasses. He spoke as he tipped a generous amount of what smelled like bourbon into the shot glasses. “Now, that is a story worth telling.” He offered Reed one of the glasses, and Malcolm cautiously accepted it.

A moment later, Captain Archer began speaking, and Reed found himself relaxing. For a wake, it wasn’t half bad.

Icy wind wailed through the starless night, battering the tent unrelentingly with driving rain and sleet. Little more than two long strips of cloth fastened together and secured in place by metal stakes, the crude structure was already soaked through and barely managed to keep out the freezing gusts. The two supporting poles trembled and shook under the onslaught of nature’s fury, threatening complete collapse each time a new blast of wind struck.

His eyes wide open, Trip Tucker stared at the dark canvas cloth above his head and tried to keep from coughing. He was so tired it was almost painful, but despite his best efforts, he couldn’t seem to convince his exhausted mind to turn off long enough for him to get any much needed rest. It was all T’Pol’s fault, he decided with a soft sigh.

As if sensing his frustration, the Vulcan subcommander shifted slightly in her sleep, snuggling closer to him and burying her head in the crook of his neck. Her face was mostly concealed by the prickly blanket wrapped around them, and Trip carefully drew the too thin strips of cloth up to completely cover her face in a possibly vain attempt to protect her from the freezing rain now beginning to drip from the tent’s ceiling. In a way, Tucker found himself grateful for the inclement weather as it gave him something to focus on other than the fact this was the sixth night in a row where T’Pol had ended up in his arms in a decidedly non-romantic nature.

For her, anyway.

Twelve local days had passed since their narrow escape from the mesa city – ten and a half Earth days, according to T’Pol’s calculations – and they had been on foot for the last two once the last of their fuel for the ATV had been expended. With rapidly dropping temperatures and rains that continued sporadically throughout the day, they had been forced to seek shelter earlier and get later starts than desired. Trip doubted they were more than fifty kilometers from where they’d concealed the now useless offroad vehicle, but with the Vulcan still recovering from the gunshot wound, speed had been abandoned for security.

“You need to sleep,” T’Pol abruptly declared, her words causing Trip to jerk in surprise. He froze, realizing almost at once that he had been unconsciously stroking her back with his left arm. When she didn’t chastise him for it or pull away from where she lay, he relaxed as much as he dared.

“I’m tryin’,” he retorted, the tightness in his lungs causing his voice to nearly crack. The Vulcan tilted her head back and peered up at his face, a quizzical expression on her features. It was almost a comical sight, with the ineffective blanket still shrouding all but the very top of her head, and Trip had to bite his lip from laughing at how ridiculous she looked.

“Charles,” she said with a hint of emotion in her voice, “you must rest.” The thrill that pulsed through him whenever she used his given name caused him to smile. “If I must,” T’Pol added, “I will render you unconscious.”

“Believe it or not,” Trip said with a tight smile, “I may just take you up on that.” He coughed, grimacing at how … wet it sounded. A cold was the last thing he needed right now. Feeling T’Pol’s eyes still on him, he glanced down to meet her gaze. “What?”

“You cannot sleep,” she said, “because you are distracted by something.” Trip closed his eyes quickly, suddenly once more aware of how she was almost draped over him like a second blanket to share body warmth, a necessity in these dangerously low temperatures. “I cannot help you if I do not know what concerns you,” she continued. Trip winced. For the briefest of moments – barely a heartbeat, really – he considered telling her how her wonderful curves pressed against him in all the right places was the reason he couldn’t relax. The impulse passed quickly though, especially when he imagined how she would react to the truth. It was bad enough knowing she and Archer had been – were? – involved; he certainly didn’t want to see disgust or, God forbid, pity in her eyes when she looked at him.

“Will you tell me why you keep havin’ nightmares?” he countered, looking down to meet her gaze once more. Instantly, T’Pol glanced away, but not before Trip saw a flash of green wash across her lovely features. Her lips tightened and Tucker could feel her entire body tense underneath the blanket. She gave him a couple of quick looks that would have looked furtive if they were on anyone else’s face, and he held his breath when she opened her mouth.

“This shelter is inadequate,” she said instead of answering his question. A moment later, she returned her head to his shoulder and, although she tried to hide it, Trip could feel her shivering. “Tomorrow,” she added, her voice muffled by the blanket, “we shift focus from evasion to survival.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Trip said with a smirk. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the pleasant sensation of her warm breath upon his neck. Despite the chill in the air, he drifted toward sleep.

The whine of an approaching internal combustion engine snapped him out of a nice if admittedly confusing dream involving monkeys and pecan pie. T’Pol was already scrambling out from under the blanket, her eyes wide as she darted to their carefully stacked supplies. At her insistence, they stored their bags in the exact same spot each night when they retired so she could rely on her perfect memory instead of her almost nonexistent night vision. As he rolled to his feet, Trip could tell dawn had just broken.

“Ground vehicle?” Trip asked as he joined her. He pulled his phase pistol free from where it was secured to his survival pack and gave her a quick glance. T’Pol’s head was tilted slightly and her eyes were slightly out of focus.

“No,” she replied softly. “An aircraft of some sort.” She frowned. “There are at least two, I believe.”

“Flyin’ this early? That’s a first.” Trip watched her for a long moment, waiting for instructions. He hated how out of his depth he felt in these sorts of situations, and silently gave thanks that the subcommander was here with him instead of someone like Travis or Hoshi who would be looking to him for direction and guidance.

“They are moving in a circular pattern,” T’Pol announced a moment later, “but are definitely moving in this direction.”

“Dammit,” Trip muttered. He wet his lips and met her eyes. “We need to run, don’t we?”

“Yes,” she said as she reached into one of the duffel bags and pulled out a jacket. “I do not think we have time to repack the tent.”

Sharp gusts of icy wind met them as they emerged from the tent moments later, and Trip cursed softly at the light blanket of snow falling from the sky. It seemed like only yesterday that it was raining, and he had to wonder about the quickness with which winter had set in. Was it normal on this planet, or did they just happen to show up at exactly the wrong time? If past experience was any indication, he suspected it was the latter, no matter how far north they’d traveled in the trike before abandoning it.

As T’Pol readjusted the distribution of her pack, Tucker kicked the support poles of the small pup tent free and let the small structure collapse. If they were lucky, the tent would be covered by snow by the time any search party arrived. Frowning, he watched his Vulcan companion as she silently hefted one of the duffel bags and almost casually slung it over her good shoulder, seemingly ignoring the gear’s considerable weight. The southern gentleman in him revolted against letting her carry the lion’s share of their equipment, even as the Starfleet commander acknowledged the necessity of the act.

“Which way?” he asked as he hefted his own rucksack. T’Pol tilted her head slightly and was silent for a moment, before pointing in the direction Trip took to be northeast.

“If we move quickly,” his Vulcan companion said through tightly clenched teeth, “we should be able to reach the ridgeline before nightfall.” As she spoke, the subcommander began wrapping one of the towels from a duffel bag around her face, and in seconds, only her eyes were still showing. Trip gave her a grin and followed suit.

The distant rumble of the aerocraft continued to pursue them as they stumbled through the forest, slipping and sliding on slick rocks and small sheets of ice, somehow managing to stay ahead of the aerial search. By noon, Trip’s lungs felt like they were on fire, and with each step he took, the urge to cough grew exponentially. Driving wind and freezing rain pelted him nonstop, soaking through his clothes and leaving him more miserable than before. The makeshift niqāb he wore over his face was frozen almost solid from sleet and sweat, but Trip was too exhausted to even consider pulling it away. His shivers had worsened a kilometer or so back, and some part of his brain knew this was a bad thing, yet he simply continued to trudge on, unable to focus on anything else. A sneeze began building at the back of his throat, but seemed permanently lodged there.

They topped a small hill overlooking a well-tended farm valley, and T’Pol’s head snapped around to the left, her body tensing. The tiny part of his reflexes not totally dulled by the freezing conditions recognized that she had detected some sort of danger, and Trip tried to force himself to react accordingly. He half-turned, his hand awkwardly seeking the concealed pistol at his side, and planted his feet.

Too late, he realized he was standing on ice.

T’Pol’s startled cry followed him as his legs shot out from under him and, unbalanced by his ruck’s weight, he tumbled down the hill. He hit the ground butt first, landing on a slick patch that was as smooth as any children’s slide he’d ever seen, and his attempts to slow his sudden race down the incline only succeeded in turning his body around. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, momentarily wiping away the deadly fatigue sapping his muscles of strength, and Trip flailed his arms around in a desperate attempt to find a handhold.

A moment later, he was airborne.

He smashed through the thin layer of ice covering a large pond at the base of the hill, and the shock of the painfully cold water suddenly surrounding him caused him to reflexively gasp. Choking on the flood of water he’d accidentally inhaled, Trip kicked his legs in an attempt to resurface even as he tried free himself from the heavy ruck on his back with uncooperative fingers. With each heartbeat that passed, though, he could feel himself steadily sinking deeper and deeper. Darkness beckoned.

Hands suddenly seized his clothes and pulled him up into the light. Unable to do more than shiver uncontrollably, Trip fought to open his eyes, to look upon his savior even as his body desperately tried to shut down. There were three of them he vaguely realized, and they were chattering away in a language he didn’t comprehend. All three were bundled up against the weather, with wide-brimmed hats and thick beards that were immaculately groomed. Oh, my God, Trip’s frozen brain reflected as stared at them through frost-laden eyelashes, I’ve been saved by Amish aliens.

“Charles!” A voice drifted across the wind, familiar but unfamiliar at the same time. “Charles!” the voice repeated, this time accompanied by a slender hand that gripped his bicep with bruising force. T’Pol was suddenly there, her eyes wide with visible worry, and Trip tried to force a smile on his face.

“I’m inna bad way, ‘Pol,” he slurred through lips that barely worked a heartbeat before he gave into the urge to close his eyes.

Oblivion – blessed oblivion – swallowed him.

There was little she could do at the moment.

A thick blanket wrapped around her, T’Pol watched silently as the natives who had retrieved Charles from the icy lake bustled around the unconscious form of her companion, feverishly working to restore his body’s core temperature to normal. Tucker’s sodden clothes had been stripped from his body the moment the humanoids – for what else could she call them, these sentients who were so like Commander Tucker physically? – carried him into the large two-story domicile. With deft motions, they had toweled him dry before laying him down upon a wide bed; two of them were even now wrapping the commander’s neck, armpits, and groin with warmed towels to facilitate his recovery, while a pair of women silently observed from the nearby doorway. A third male supervised, issuing instructions with a casual air of command that identified him as the family patriarch far more than the white in his hair.

As their native benefactors worked, T’Pol hugged the comfortable wrap they had provided her closer and took a moment to study them. Compared to Charles, they were relatively short, closer to her height than his, but had a much stockier build. Their skin tone was quite pale, instantly reminding her of le’matya milk, but the epicanthic fold of their upper eyelids brought to mind Ensign Sato. The clothes they wore appeared to be homemade as opposed to mass manufactured, but were no less visually appealing for their simple origin. Every piece of furniture within the room had a similar look of aged comfort and careful craftsmanship.

Several long moments later, the family patriarch placed a hand upon Commander Tucker’s forehead and nodded. At the signal, the other two men visibly relaxed, and stepped back from the bed, retrieving the towels as they did. Based on their expressions, T’Pol suspected they were no longer worried about Charles’ immediate situation, and she felt her own tension ease exponentially. The elder barked several rapid commands in his native tongue, and the two other men retreated from the room with curious but seemingly respectful hand gestures directed in T’Pol’s direction. Following their departure, the patriarch approached her and began speaking softly. At her blank look, he frowned slightly before attempting once more, this time, using a distinctly different tongue that was no more understandable than the first.

“I apologize,” T’Pol said in English, knowing the man would not comprehend her words, “but I do not know your language.” It had been a conscious decision to utilize Charles’ native tongue rather than her own, so as to avoid future confusion, especially if the commander happened to talk in his sleep.

Frustration stamped on his face, the elder turned away and gestured for the two women to join him. He spoke to them for a moment, gesticulating wildly and nodding at their measured responses, before turning once more to examine T’Pol. Suddenly conscious of her appearance and the potentially dangerous situation she could be in, the subcommander shifted closer to Tucker’s bed under the guise of checking on him. In the process, she adjusted the blanket wrapped around her, making sure that her ears were concealed from view. At the same time, she checked the location of their salvaged gear – their rucksacks and duffel bags were still where they had been dropped alongside the bed, although Charles’ dripping pack was slightly apart from the others. None of their benefactors had shown any inclination toward examining the gear.

The older of the two women snapped something to the patriarch before gesturing sharply with her hands. He smirked, inexplicably reminding T’Pol of Charles when the commander was graciously abandoning a losing argument, before backing away toward the door his two juniors had vanished through earlier. With his left hand, he repeated the respectful gesture – touching the tip of his nose with the second knuckle of his pointing finger – before disappearing through the doorway and leaving T’Pol alone with the two women.

Laughing slightly, the older woman followed the man, but stopped at the threshold and pulled the door shut before approaching T’Pol. Speaking slowly – and louder than necessary – the woman began gesturing between T’Pol and the somnolent Charles Tucker. Several crude gestures later, the subcommander comprehended the woman’s meaning, and barely hesitated.

“Yes,” she said with a nod, “we are mated.” It was a necessary deception for the moment, though T’Pol was unsure how Charles would react when he learned of it. For the moment, having these natives believe she and Tucker were a bonded pair would eliminate any misunderstandings regarding why a male and a female might be traveling together, especially in a pre-warp culture such as this one. “T’Pol,” the subcommander said, pointing to herself with her left hand.

“Dena,” the matriarch replied with an identical gesture. She pointed to the younger female – a girl, really, barely out of her teens, but with features sufficiently similar to the older woman that it was obvious they were close kin – and added, “Erela.” Pleasantries over, Dena issued instructions to her daughter in rapid sentences T’Pol couldn’t begin to comprehend. The girl obeyed at once, darting to a staircase that the Vulcan had not, until this moment, even noticed. Before she was gone, Dena began pointing once more to the unconscious Commander Tucker. When T’Pol gave her a tight frown, the matriarch sighed heavily, lifted the covers, and gave the subcommander a telling look. Another quick motion of the female’s hands encompassed the damp clothes T’Pol wore underneath the blanket wrapped around her, and it was accompanied by a sharp shake of her head.

T’Pol swallowed.

Logically, she understood what was expected of her – the sharing of body heat, skin to skin, was likely the most effective means of restoring Charles’ core temperature to normal on a primitive world such as this – but the sudden realization that both of them would be completely nude gave her pause. The commander hadn’t been as effective as he would like to believe in concealing the effect her body had on his over the last several days, especially in the early mornings, and she could only imagine how it would react the moment his subconscious became aware of her nudity. At the same time, her Vulcan upbringing rebelled at the thought of being so close to a male who was not her bonded mate.

Her momentary hesitation was misinterpreted by Dena who gave her a soft smile and a reassuring pat on the shoulder before retreating from the room, making sure to pull the door shut behind her. T’Pol sighed heavily, before quickly frowning at the expression of emotion. Her jumbled emotions raced through her mind at warp speed, reminding her that she had not effectively meditated since before they escaped from the mesa city. Grimacing slightly at her lapse of control, she studied Tucker’s features before exhaling softly and kneeling alongside their packs to retrieve the phase pistols.

A moment later, she was under the covers alongside Charles.