The Destroyer

Chapter 8

"What the hell am I supposed to say to them?" Archer pressed his palms into his eyes, and tried to will the pain to go away. It didn't work. "How do I tell them that he's dead?" he wondered. Abruptly, his anger dwindled into regret. "Especially since Trip has been avoiding me," Jon muttered sadly. The doctor nodded knowingly, and Archer frowned slightly. "What?" he asked.

"I have noticed," Phlox remarked, "that you have been spending a great deal of time with the subcommander in recent weeks." Innuendo dripped off of the doctor's words, and Jon's frown deepened.

"She was my first officer," Archer retorted, suddenly angry at the doctor's implication. He wondered when it became impossible for a man and a woman to work together without people assuming that they were romantically involved. Was this a Starfleet ship, or middle school? "It was my job to spend time with her."

"Are you attracted to her?" the doctor asked, seemingly out of nowhere, and Jon gave him an incredulous look.

"What?" he asked, eyes wide. "What kind of question is that?"

"A simple one." Phlox gave him a smile. "The subcommander is an attractive female by human standards, and you have been working in close proximity to her for a year."

"The answer is no." Jon glared at the doctor. "No, I wasn't attracted to her." He glanced away. "Not like Trip was, anyway," he said softly. Memories of the two commanders watching one another when the other wasn't looking would have caused him to smile if it didn't hurt so much.

"Ah." Once more, the doctor's expression was knowing. "I apologize for any insult, Captain. Some of your human mating rituals are still rather difficult for me to comprehend." The Denobulan's expression bordered on sheepish as he continued. "Besides," Phlox offered, "We don't know that they're dead."

"You've seen the same data I have, Phlox," Archer said grimly. "What are the chances that they survived? Maybe less than five percent."

"Both the subcommander and Mister Tucker are quite resourceful." Phlox offered a wider than normal smile. "Optimism, Captain," he said brightly. "Now let's see what we can do about your insomnia," the Denobulan decided. "I have some Aldebarian leeches that will put you right to sleep!"

Jon groaned.

The sound of distant gunfire woke her.

Her first instinct was to leap to her feet, but Subcommander T'Pol winced at the twinge of pain that accompanied her first attempts to do so. Grimacing, she let herself relax back onto the vehicle seat that Commander Tucker had insisted she rest on. It was barely long enough for her to stretch out on, but was cushioned and far more comfortable than resting on the hard stone surface of the garage. With the doors of the groundcar closed, it was also less exposed to the cold wind that continually rattled the dilapidated building they were hiding in, and combined with the thermal blanket from her survival packet, proved to be a more than adequate bed.

His own thermal blanket wrapped around him, Commander Tucker appeared to be deeply asleep in the driver's seat of the stolen groundcar. With his head propped up against the window of the vehicle's door, T'Pol had an excellent view of his profile, and she spent a long moment studying him. In slumber, he appeared to be even younger than she knew him to be, and the worry that had hounded him since their crash landing was temporarily absent. His breath fogged up the glassite window that his head leaned against, and T'Pol found herself momentarily mesmerized by the steadiness of his respiration and the peace on his face.

Ripping her attention away from the sleeping commander, T'Pol gave their surroundings another look. Three days had passed since Enterprise had last made contact with them, leaving her and Commander Tucker to fend for themselves, and they had done little beyond rest and plan in that time. Initially, she had been concerned at their vulnerability in the wake of the commander's shooting of the law enforcement officer, but that fear had been assuaged almost as soon as dawn broke on the first day.

"Sounds like they're gettin' an early start today," Tucker murmured as sporadic gunfire increased in volume. He straightened in his seat, wincing almost at once before massaging his neck with one hand. His comment did not require a reply, so T'Pol remained silent as she listened to the sounds of war.

It had begun – or, more likely, resumed – as the sun rose on the morning after Commander Tucker had found their current hiding place. Artillery and aerial strikes by military units encamped outside the city pounded the buildings, reducing the most prominent and exposed of them that weren’t already smashed to burning rubble. The inhabitants of the city retaliated with their own salvo of primitive yet still lethal fire. Each day, the aggressive firefight would trail off with the setting sun only to resume once dawn arrived. Whether the cessation of hostilities was entirely due to the nightly rainstorms or something else, T'Pol had no idea. It was a most inefficient way to wage a war.

"I was thinkin'," Tucker said after a moment. He pressed his tongue against the inside of cheek but kept his eyes fixed on the closed garage door. "We need to get outta the city, right?" T'Pol nodded fractionally in response, and the commander continued. "Which means we're gonna need supplies." Instantly, T'Pol realized what he was considering and frowned slightly.

"You will not venture into this city alone, Commander," she said flatly. He had suggested this course of action several times over the last three days, and each time T’Pol had overruled it. Though he had not admitted it, she suspected that her injury was the only reason he had obeyed in each of those instances; leaving a wounded comrade behind simply wasn’t in his personality. Tucker gave her a sidelong glance before returning his gaze to the entranceway.

"I’m not sure if you’re thinkin’ straight," he declared after another long moment. When he turned his attention to face her, T’Pol barely recognized the grim resolve in his features. "Stayin’ in this city is suicide," Tucker continued. "Especially with you injured." He smiled, but it never touched his eyes. "After all," he smirked, "I’m the logical choice to go get what we need."

"You don’t have the necessary training for a mission like this," T’Pol argued.

"And you do?" he snorted.

"Yes," T’Pol replied evenly, drawing from him a startled look. "By nightfall, I should be well enough to accompany you."

"I wanna be outta the city by then," Tucker said. "If the natives have bad night vision like you said, it’ll give us the advantage over ‘em if we move at night." T’Pol frowned at his assumption; she had based her theory about the night vision of the natives on the relatively high albedo of the three planetary satellites that orbited the world they were currently stranded on. Providing the rainstorms that had plagued them since the day after their crash-landing were only a seasonal event, it was logical to presume that species evolving on this planet would do so without the need for night vision as acute as the commander’s.

"Need I remind you, Commander," she pointed out, "That my night vision is also deficient?"

"Yeah, but you’ve got me," Tucker replied almost absently. He wore an expression that T’Pol had often seen while he worked out a particularly complex engineering problem. "I’m pretty sure that I spotted a*****e a couple of blocks down the road when I was on the roof last night," he said. T’Pol successfully fought back a frown at that; she had instructed him not to climb onto the roof, even if it provided a better vantage point of their surroundings. As in most things, however, the commander obeyed her only when it suited him to do so. He continued. "We need new clothes, maps, campin’ supplies, food-" At that, his stomach gurgled loudly, reminding her that they had consumed the last of their rations two days earlier; she too could feel the gnaw of hunger but unlike the commander, was better able to ignore it. She opened her mouth to argue again, to point out the inherent danger in him trying to gather supplies for them when he wasn’t trained for such a thing, but found that the words would not come.

He was right.

It was most annoying to realize that she was allowing personal sentiment to cloud her judgment in this matter. Commander Tucker – Charles, she reminded herself – was the logical choice for a mission like this. He was unwounded, in excellent physical shape, and had superior technology at his grasp. Furthermore, a glancing examination at him would not reveal his extraterrestrial origin, something that could not be said of her. Her hesitation was understandable, though; in the short time she had known him, the commander had proven extraordinarily effective at getting himself injured.

"I’ll be careful," Tucker stated as he opened the door of the groundcar. He shot her a look that T’Pol couldn’t possibly comprehend. "I know I’m not your first choice of companions on this rock," he said almost sadly. Emotions that she did not recognize played across his face. "But give me some credit, will ya? I’m not a complete idiot." He pushed the door closed before she could respond and, by the time she had extricated herself from the vehicle, the commander had vanished into the city beyond.

For nearly a full minute, T’Pol stood quietly beside the vehicle, examining the unruly emotions that battered at her weakened control. With a start, she realized that she had not meditated since prior to their crash-landing over ten days earlier; there simply had not been the time or opportunity. The last three days she had spent mostly in a healing trance as she pushed her body to recover more quickly, and while that helped somewhat, it was not an ideal replacement for meditation.

Abruptly, T’Pol narrowed her eyes suddenly as something occurred to her: during the three days she had been mostly unconscious, Tucker had been left with only himself as company and, as she had learned since arriving aboard Enterprise, the commander was very much a social animal. Worry thundered through her then as she realized that he may have decided to act out of a desire to simply do something. He was too reckless for this mission. Too reckless, too emotional, too illogical. Knowing him as she did, T’Pol had no doubt that he would get himself into life-threatening trouble and would need her to rescue him. Her tenuous control wavered and she grimaced at the realization that she had retraced Tucker’s steps to the garage entrance; the urge to pursue him was so overwhelming that she reached for the door before catching herself.

It took more effort than she would have expected, but T’Pol managed to push down the urge to charge after him. Mediation was no longer desirable, it was necessary.

Commander Tucker would have to look after himself.

This no longer seemed like a particularly good idea.

Artillery fire boomed all around him, kicking up great gouts of stone debris as the incoming shells detonated with fierce explosions. The chatter of machine guns seemed nonstop and from so many different directions, it was impossible to tell where the nearest weapon emplacement was located. Propeller-driven aircraft roared through the sky overhead, some friendly and dedicated to defending the city while others seemed intent on destroying it with guns and bombs.

It was utter chaos.

Crouching behind a large slab of fallen wall, Trip Tucker looked around desperately for a safer spot to hide in or behind or under. No stranger to firefights since shipping out on Enterprise, he had never before realized the sheer insanity of a pitched battle. The screams of dying or badly wounded men and women could only be ignored when another explosion shook the ground or toppled another building. But then, of course, even more wails would join the terrible cacophony.

Another artillery shell detonation rattled the ground, and Trip grimaced at how close it seemed to his current position. Nothing had gone right from the moment he had left the garage nearly two hours earlier. The building that he had thought was a*****e turned out to be some sort of office, which in turn forced him to venture farther from where T’Pol was in order to find the supplies they needed. By his reckoning, he was nearly a kilometer away from her, and it almost seemed as if the universe was trying to do him in. Each time he tried to retrace his steps, artillery would begin falling upon the path he needed to take, forcing him to retreat deeper into the heart of the already shattered city.

Without warning, two military groundcars – ATVs like the one he and T’Pol had used days earlier – slid around the wet streets, engines whining with stress. The passengers of each vehicle were standing upright in their positions, manning what looked to be machine guns. With a guttural roar, one of the swept-wing aircraft raced overhead, its own weapons barking angrily. The lead groundcar shuddered as bullets punched into it and sent it tumbling through the air to explode against a building already on fire. The other ATV returned fire, its much smaller gun sending a spray of hot lead into the aircraft’s superstructure. Tires screeching, the surviving groundcar took another hard turn, disappearing from sight even as the aircraft vanished behind the looming wreckage of a multiple-story building.

Trip let out a tense breath and looked once more for better cover. A man could get himself killed out here.

Keeping low, Tucker half-ran, half-crouched toward a three-story building that still seemed mostly intact. In his right hand he held one of the slugthrowers he’d taken from the two cops days earlier; his phase pistol was still securely holstered and within easy access, but he didn’t want to use it unless he had no other choice, especially since the energy beam would be so foreign to the locals. If T’Pol was right – and she usually was – the two of them might be on this backwater rock for a long time and he had no plans to be dissected by some trigger-happy native wearing a uniform.

The door to the three-story building had been blown off its hinges sometime back, and Trip darted toward the open doorway with the pistol at the ready. Adrenaline was coursing through his body and his breath sounded ragged, even to his own ears. Fear was making him jumpy, a part of him coolly accessed, and he tried to calm himself down. The boom of another exploding shell close by ended that attempt rather quickly.

Inside the building were dozens and dozens of cots, upon each of which was a wounded man or woman wailing for aid. Trip’s stomach tightened at the overpowering stench of blood, and he backed away quickly, lowering the sidearm as he did. Though he’d never seen one in person, he knew enough about wars to recognize a casualty collection point. Hoping that he hadn’t been noticed, he sprinted toward another alleyway.

This is insane, Tucker thought as he ducked around another corner. I’m gonna get killed! As if in agreement, one of the military ATVs that seemed so common raced down the connecting street, narrowly missing Trip’s arm with its protruding mirror. Belatedly, Tucker jumped backwards before glowering darkly at the fast-moving vehicle.

The driver never looked back.

A second close call with one of the military groundcars sent Trip scrambling into a derelict building that was missing most of its roof and two of its outer walls. To his relief, it had once been a private home and still had local clothes in a mostly intact dresser. In a partially demolished armoire, he found a framed backpack that reminded him of his grandad’s old Army rucksack. A few more minutes rooting through the debris netted him a pair of black long-coats that reminded him of dusters; he pulled one of them on – it was a little too small, but still covered up his tan-colored uniform nicely – and stuffed the other into the pack for T’Pol. A pair of maroon-colored pants that he thought she could wear joined the coat, and Tucker spent several more minutes sifting through the remaining clothes but ultimately leaving them behind.

The loud rumble of a tracked vehicle echoed through the house, and Trip watched the self-propelled artillery piece through a shattered window with an engineer’s fascination but a guerilla’s caution. Smoke was trailing off of it as it lumbered slowly down the street, and small impact craters pockmarked its outer armor, clear indication of hard use. Twice, the engine on the vehicle nearly gave out, but each time, the driver coaxed a little more out of it.

Once the artillery piece was gone, Tucker hefted the rucksack and crept from the house. He glanced up into the sky and was momentarily distracted by the aerial acrobatics being conducted by the dogfighting planes that flew overhead; the moment passed quickly, though, and he sprinted toward some cover about five meters away. Another doorway beckoned, this time a plain-looking and mostly intact four-story building that had a parked ATV in front of it, and he considered it for a long moment. In the end, he decided against entering it.

Another hour passed as Trip dodged large pockets of fighting and artillery barrages. Once, he nearly stumbled into a squad of seven locals, all armed with rifles and other military gear, but none of them seemed to notice him as they jogged toward their destination. It took nearly another twenty minutes for his heart rate to slow to normal after that close call.

Fifteen minutes later, he discovered a crashed supply truck that had everything he needed. The driver – a young woman, Trip realized – had evidently lost control of the vehicle when one of the rear tires was hit by shrapnel. Military bags were strewn all across the street, their contents spilling free. Some of them had sealed packages that his scanner identified as rations of some sort; others had camping gear. Still others had clothes he recognized as the local military uniform. For a long moment, he didn’t know how he would be able to carry everything they needed, but memory of the parked ATV in front of the four-story building caused him to grin. Moving quickly, he dragged several of the bags away from the smoking truck and concealed them under large slabs of rock. Satisfied, he began retracing his steps, consulting his small scanner as necessary.

To Trip’s delight, the vehicle was entirely functional, and the engine caught on the first attempt. He nearly went airborne several times in his urgency to get back to the crashed truck, and what had taken over an hour on foot took only five or ten minutes in the groundcar. His heart was racing as he loaded the gear onto the ATV, and he fought to keep himself from grinning too broadly. This was going to work.

A soft groan sent a stab of panic through him and Tucker spun to face the source of the sound, the slugthrower already in hand. It was the driver, he realized with some shock. She was still alive. Against his better judgment, he approached her and ran the scanner over her body. What he saw wasn’t very encouraging; without treatment, she would be dead in a matter of hours. Trip hesitated as he debated his next course of action. In the end, there really wasn’t any option.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he told her, even though he knew she couldn’t hear him. Even if she could, it wasn’t like she could understand him anyway.

No one challenged him as he parked the ATV outside the casualty collection center, but one of the locals inside approached the moment Trip stepped through the doorway with the unconscious girl in his arms. The man directed them to an empty cot, asking questions in a language that Tucker couldn’t understand. When Trip simply looked at him with a blank expression, the man offered an encouraging but oddly condescending smile, before gently pushing Tucker away from the cot. At the man’s gesture, several other locals descended upon the injured girl with the practiced motions of medical professionals.

The abject stupidity of what he had just done suddenly sent a shiver up Trip’s spine and he backed away as quickly as he could manage without drawing more attention to himself. Relief washed through him when he saw that his ATV was still where he left it; more importantly, though, none of the gear strapped to its “roof” had been touched. He climbed onto it and started the engine once more.

This is too easy, he mused as he directed the groundcar down the side streets. Something just had to go wrong in the next couple of minutes.

To his surprise, though, nothing did go wrong and thirty minutes later, he braked in front of their garage hideout. For the first time since they’d crashed on this damned rock, Trip felt optimism returning. Nothing had gone wrong. He hadn’t been shot or stabbed or punched or captured. Not to mention, he’d probably saved that girl’s life. Wait until T’Pol hears about that, he grinned, suspecting she’d chew him out for acting illogically and emotionally.

But T’Pol wasn’t there.

He hadn’t been looking forward to this.

Standing quietly with his hands behind his back, Ensign Travis Mayweather stared morosely at the small lectern that had been erected near the back of the mess hall. The United Earth Space Probe Agency seal was prominently displayed on the wooden stand, and two flags dominated the wall behind it. For a moment, Travis wondered where they had obtained the Vulcan flag before recalling what the quartermaster was capable of. Large photographs of Commander Tucker and Subcommander T’Pol, blown up to three times actual size, were resting just beneath the two flags; they were transposed, with Trip’s image beneath the Vulcan emblem while T’Pol rested under Earth’s.

It seemed oddly appropriate.

Captain Archer stood silently at the lectern, his somber expression reflecting the general mood of the assembled officers and crewmen within the mess hall. Directly to the captain’s left stood Lieutenant Commander Reed, and to Archer’s right stood Anna Hess; both of the commanders wore bleak, almost angry expressions, and Travis wondered if they were still blaming themselves.

Three days had passed since Enterprise departed the system that had (presumably) claimed the lives of her first officer and chief engineer, and in that time, at least six memorial services for the two fallen officers were aborted due to ship emergencies. All but one of those emergencies had been due to the ever temperamental warp drive throwing a fit, and, while well-trained and more than competent, Hess simply wasn’t as skilled at soothing the beast that was Henry Archer’s design as the absent Commander Tucker had been. To a superstitious Boomer raised on tales about the almost mystical bond between engineer and ship, it seemed to Travis that Enterprise herself was grieving over their losses.

To no one’s surprise, Captain Archer was taking the deaths the hardest. Though the captain tried to conceal his anger and grief, Travis had learned to read him well enough to recognize how little sleep the older man was getting. Almost overnight, Archer seemed to have aged a decade; now, instead of the ready smile he had worn since Travis first met him, the captain wore a mask of intent resolve that would have been at home on the sternest of Vulcans.

Despite his emotional pain, though, the captain seemed be everywhere at once, offering soothing words and an understanding ear to any member of the crew who wanted to talk, no matter how mundane or pedantic the topic. Archer’s tone was never condescending or belligerent as he listened to the anecdotes about the two lost officers or worries about the coming inquest. Talking seemed to help everyone come to grips with the losses.

Everyone but the captain.

“When I first met Charles Tucker,” Archer began, his hands gripping the lectern tightly, “He was arguing with a Vulcan.” Despite himself, Travis started to smile as the memory of Commander Tucker’s sometimes heated discussions with the subcommander came to mind. From the soft chuckles of many of the crew, he wasn’t the only one who thought that. “This was ten years ago, right before the NX-Alpha incident that some of you may have heard of.” The captain was silent for a brief moment and seemed to struggle with something. “And without Trip’s help,” he said passionately, “We might have never broken the warp two point five barrier.

“He was the best friend a man could have,” the captain continued, blinking away tears as he spoke. “Brave, smart, funny, but always there when you needed him.” A number of people – Travis included – began to nod in agreement. “Over the years, Trip became the little brother that I never had…” Another long moment passed as Archer struggled to regain his equilibrium; Travis found himself staring at the UESPA seal, unwilling to watch as the captain fought with powerful emotions. If he did, Mayweather suspected that he would lose his own composure.

“As to Subcommander T’Pol,” Archer said loudly, “I didn’t know her as well as I would have liked.” At that, Travis fought a smile. Fully half of the crew – Mayweather included – suspected that the captain was romantically involved or at least interested in the Vulcan subcommander; the other half – including Hoshi – argued that it was Trip who had attracted her eye. Once or twice, the arguments had even gotten out of hand, but usually only among the junior enlisted crewmembers; Elizabeth Cutler and Ethan Novakovich, for example, no longer even talked to one another over it.

“It’s no secret,” the captain stated, “That I initially resented her presence aboard Enterprise.” A sour look crossed his face but was gone so quickly, Travis wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it or not. “In the short time she was aboard, though, she proved to be as loyal and as dedicated to our mission as any of us.

“Nowhere was this more evident than in the respect that grew between her and Commander Tucker.” Archer smiled slightly. “On numerous occasions, I saw these two put aside their differences and disagreements to accomplish some task. They were,” he remarked with a hint of amusement, “One helluva team.”

“So today,” Archer pronounced sadly, “We grieve the loss of two officers … of two friends who helped us further our journey into the stars.” The sense of finality began pressing in on Travis and he shifted awkwardly in place; at his side, Hoshi sniffled and, to his surprise, reached for his hand. He took it, clung to it, and tried not to weep. “Though they are no longer with us, we must never forget them or forget the lessons they taught us.” Archer nodded to Reed.

“Detachment,” the acting first officer snapped, his words loud and harsh. “Stand at attention!” Travis let go of Hoshi’s hand as he straightened his posture.

“We cannot commit their bodies to the deep,” Captain Archer said softly. “But we can wish them – wherever they may be – a safe journey.” Anger began leaking into the captain’s voice, displacing the sadness and reminding Travis of how vociferously Archer had argued with Starfleet Command over this very matter. To the admirals back on Earth, the two commanders were officially listed as Missing Presumed Dead, while Captain Archer wanted them to be listed as merely Missing. It seemed a minor squabble, but a MPD tag meant that no resources would be expended to verify their actual status.