The Destroyer

Chapter 19

“T’Pol?” he said after a moment of silence. He couldn’t explain how, but Trip somehow knew she was looking at him. “Am I ever gonna get you to call me Trip?” he asked.

“The future is full of surprises,” she replied calmly. He grinned.

“That wasn’t a ‘no.’”

“It was not a ‘yes’ either.” Trip chuckled, suddenly in a better mood than he had been for a week. He opened his eyes slightly so he could watch her.

“But it wasn’t a ‘no.’ That’s the most important part.”

“Until you can remain awake for an entire neuropressure session, Charles,” T’Pol said, “I will not even entertain the notion.”

“But you will think about it, right?”

“Close your eyes, Charles,” T’Pol ordered, “and focus on meditation. We have a long day ahead of us.”

T’Pol’s hand trembled.

She did not think that her companion saw her momentary weakness – at the moment, Trip was hunched over the exposed circuitry of her scanner trying to locate the reason for fluctuating readings on the device – but she quickly thrust the offending limb behind her back to hide it from view just in case. A deeply buried part of her psyche moaned in distress at what the spasms meant, even as a greater part silently acknowledged that she had been fortunate the symptoms were only now beginning to manifest. By her calculations, over four months (Earth standard) had passed since her last treatment, and Phlox was no longer available to lend his medical brilliance toward slowing the onset of the condition. Though it was completely illogical, she had desperately hoped the Denobulan had – what was the human phrase? – pulled the proverbial monkey out of the hat and developed a miracle cure.

Obviously, he had not.

Carefully smoothing out any hint of emotion from her expression, T’Pol began making adjustments to her mental timetable. Now that she knew the Pa’nar was not in remission as she’d hoped, she would have to push Charles even harder, would have to redouble her efforts to turn him into a highly skilled operative capable of surviving any situation he found himself in. It would be difficult, especially with her concealing the nature of her haste, but if anyone could do this, Charles Tucker could.

She only hoped he would not hate her once he learned what she was hiding from him.

“Damn,” the subject of her musings muttered. Seated on the cot with his legs hanging over the side, Charles had the lid of a crate on his lap acting like a makeshift table for the scanner. He leaned back, shaking his head. “I was afraid of this,” he said before looking up at her. “It looks like the power cell was damaged somehow.” T’Pol leaned forward to look at the partially disassembled device on the makeshift table.

“Can you repair it?” she asked, noting once more the sudden tension that caused the muscles in his neck and shoulders to tighten. It was ironic, T’Pol reflected as she shuffled back a half step, how sensitive he had become to her invasion of his personal space. When Enterprise first deployed, it had been she who always seemed discomfited by his proximity, yet at some point, the situation had reversed. She wondered why.

“With the tools we’ve got here,” Tucker said, gesturing toward the crude array of wrenches meant entirely for the maintenance of a primitive internal combustion engine, “I sincerely doubt it.” He ran his fingers through his lengthening hair and sighed. “We need a dedicated electronics repair kit. Something with a soldering iron, some tweezers, a magnifyin’ glass…” Trip gestured to the carefully stacked duffel bags and wooden crates containing the supplies they had obtained. “We’ve already been through this stuff twice without finding what we need.”

“Then we shall seek it elsewhere,” T’Pol declared. “How long until the power cell is completely expended?” She hoped that Charles did not realize that she was more than capable of determining the answer herself; by keeping his mind busy in this way, she was able to prevent him from relapsing into the depression he’d been poised to spiral into.

“Depends on how often we use the scanner.” He pressed his tongue against the side of his mouth as he considered. “If we turn it off and don’t use it at all,” he said, “I figure the battery will hold a charge for at least a year.” Tucker’s expression turned resolute. “But if we keep usin’ it like we have,” he added, “it’ll be a pretty paperweight within a month.”

“Then we adapt,” T’Pol said. She took a seat on an uncomfortable box in front of him and watched silently as he began reassembling the scanner. The precision in his fingers was astounding for a man who came across so bluntly. She had never quite understood the dichotomy.

Now is not the time to get distracted, she reminded herself. Charles was relying upon her to teach him how to survive and it was long past time for the lessons to resume.

“How much time has elapsed since we meditated?” T’Pol asked, her voice brisk. He recognized her tone and reacted accordingly. His entire body language … shifted, as if he flipped a switch inside his brain. Although he continued to reassemble the scanner, his eyes closed.

“I estimate ... three hours, thirty-six minutes,” he replied. She cleared her throat and he grimaced. “I don’t know the number of seconds,” Tucker admitted.

“Twenty-nine,” she said. “But better. Your sense of timing is much improved.” He smiled, but did not open his eyes. “Seventeen minutes ago,” T’Pol said, “I placed six objects on the dashboard of this vehicle. Describe them.”

“Two rounds from one of the rifles we picked up,” Trip began instantly, “a roll of tape –it was medical tape from your aid kit and not the cheap stuff from mine – that small mirror we cut up yesterday, the metal pin to open the breakfast entrée…” Tucker trailed off as he concentrated on his memory. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open and he grinned at her. “You liar,” he said. “There were only five things on the dash.”

“Very good, Charles.” He beamed at the compliment. “Eyes closed,” she reminded him. He obeyed. “There is an object directly behind you that should not belong. Describe it.” Tucker was silent for a moment before frowning.

“I don’t remember anything out of place back there,” he admitted.

“You aren’t concentrating, Charles,” T’Pol said. “Focus on clearing your mind of clutter as I showed you. Breathe in, breathe out. Allow your thoughts to become an empty space, an expanse of white that stretches on into infinity.” She waited for a long moment as he sat there quietly, his face reflecting the effort it was taking for him to avoid fidgeting. “Now envision a flame. Feed all of your emotions into this fire. Let it consume them.” Another long moment passed, but this time, Charles seemed to be relaxing. T’Pol nodded. “There is an object directly behind you that should not belong,” she repeated. “Describe it.”

“White rock,” Tucker mumbled. “Jagged edges, barely three centimeters in size.” He grunted. “How did I miss that?” he asked with wonder in his voice. T’Pol fought the urge to smile.

“Begin calculating pi until I tell you to stop,” she instructed as she glanced down and saw that he was done reassembling the scanner.

“That I can do in my sleep,” he said with a smirk. “Three point one four one five nine two six-”

As he recited the numbers, T’Pol slowly, stealthily reached forward with her left hand and stroked his ear. Charles jerked away from the unexpected sensation with a startled yelp, his knees knocking the makeshift table from his lap and sending the scanner tumbling. Almost casually, T’Pol snatched it out of the air with her other hand and leaned back, meeting his wide eyes with a single, upraised eyebrow.

“You allowed yourself to become distracted,” she told him.

“You tickled my ear!”

“I did,” T’Pol agreed. “You must be capable of divorcing yourself from sensation should the need arise while retaining your cognitive abilities.” She gestured toward his ear. “My hand could have represented a serpent drawn to your body heat but relying on movement – your movement – to know when and where to strike.” Charles swallowed. For the span of a heartbeat, T’Pol allowed herself to feel pity for the lost innocent he had once been. His desires had been so simple, so appealing: to build a warp drive and see the stars. It pained her to be the person molding him into a potential weapon. “I am confident in your ability to master these techniques, Charles,” she said, her words causing him to sigh.

“I’m not,” he admitted. “I’m afraid I’m gonna disappoint you.” T’Pol raised an eyebrow in surprise at how heartfelt he sounded.

“You must cast out fear,” she began.

“Because it’s the mind-killer, right?” Tucker interrupted. “I’ve heard that one before.” T’Pol gave him a confused look. “From Dune?” he asked. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of it?”

“Then I will not tell you,” she retorted. Charles grunted and glanced away, his eyes momentarily swimming out of focus as he concentrated. She felt an entirely unVulcan-like sense of pride at her student’s accomplishments as he began reciting from memory.

“I must not fear,” he said. “Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration.” T’Pol felt her eyebrows climb at the pure logic behind the words. “I will face my fear,” Trip continued, an expression of growing surprise on his face. “I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.” He rocked back, a riot of emotions crossing his face.

“Fascinating,” T’Pol murmured. She never would have suspected humanity was capable of something that sounded so profoundly … Vulcan.

“I’ve never been able to remember that whole thing,” Tucker said. “Never.” He shook his head in amazement. “But now, it’s like I’ve got the whole thing runnin’ in my head.” T’Pol nodded.

“That is because you are making progress,” she said. “The mind – human or Vulcan – is capable of far more than you may think. Your preconceptions about what you can and cannot do limit you, so you must cast them aside.”

“I guess so,” Trip said as he seemed to rouse from the momentary stupor he had slipped into. “We’ve still got an hour and a half before it gets too dark to even see,” he remarked with a broad grin. He leaned forward. “What other secret Vulcan mojo can you teach me?” T’Pol steepled her fingers.

“As I promised,” she told him smoothly, “I will teach you all that I know.” She nearly gave into the urge to smile at his sudden eagerness. “I have already taught you things that would lead to my exile from Vulcan, Charles,” she remarked wryly. “Do not expect to learn all of my secrets at once.” His enthusiasm vanished almost instantly.

“I hadn’t thought about it like that,” he said. “I guess it’s a good thing we’re probably never gonna get off this rock, huh?”

“Evidently.” They sat in comfortable silence for long minutes before T’Pol made a decision. She would begin pushing Charles’ hard tomorrow. Tonight, she wanted to remember the Commander Tucker who had championed the ridiculous movie nights on Enterprise, the Commander Tucker who had become the de facto ship’s counselor, the Commander Tucker who had offered her the hand of friendship. “This … Dune. What is it?”

“A movie,” he replied before shifting on the cot to make room for her; it was entirely too small for two people, but the warmth Charles’ body provided during the freezing temperatures at night more than made up for the lack of comfort. T’Pol rose and took her usual place in front of him. “Well,” Trip corrected himself as she folded her legs under her, “a couple of movies actually. It’s been remade a half-dozen times, though I think the one from ten years ago was the best.” He leaned back against the wall of the ambulance and scratched the uncomfortable-looking beard he hadn’t been able to cut off yet. “Based on a book written back in the twentieth century, I think,” he said before abruptly snorting. “Now that I think about it,” he said with a grin, “Dune is right up your alley.” At her upraised eyebrow, he explained. “It’s set on a desert planet, and has these guys called Mentats who are dedicated to pure mathematics and logic.”

“Indeed?”

“It’s about religion, and politics, and all sorts of messy emotions. A real classic.” Tucker crossed his arms. “If … when we get back, I’ll have to get you a copy of the movie.”

“Perhaps a dramatic reading would be more illuminating,” T’Pol interjected, “but I look forward to it nonetheless.” She pulled one of the carefully folded blankets down from where it had been stored and drew it around her shoulders. “In the interim, however,” she said, “you may tell me about this … classic.” Trip nodded.

“Well, it all begins with this boy Paul Atreides…”

The muted buzz of the oxygen scrubbers was giving him a headache.

Hiding his distaste behind a mask of stoic indifference, Soval stepped through the open doorway leading to the dining facility. Despite his best efforts, he had yet to discover why his human crewmates referred to it as a ‘mess deck’ – it was neither disorganized nor a hall in the proper sense of the word – and was seriously considering a visit to Lieutenant Sato. If anyone aboard Enterprise could explain the etymology of the term, it was she.

Despite the hour, the cafeteria was almost filled to capacity with crewmen and officers who spent more time talking and interacting socially than they did consuming food. The emotions from the assembled humans swelled and thundered like a physical thing, pushing at Soval’s finely honed senses and causing him to inhale sharply as he redoubled his mental shields. Not for the first time since coming aboard Enterprise, he experienced a flash of muted awe directed toward the late Subcommander T’Pol – how in Surak’s name had she managed to survive an entire year without going mad? He himself had been aboard for less than two months and he never failed to end a day without suffering from a crippling headache from the unrestrained emotion that bombarded him like unrelenting thunder. Things were even worse in times like this, when they had narrowly escaped certain death as they had following the incident at the trinary star system. Eager to remind themselves that they were still alive, the humans laughed and played and cavorted like children.

And Soval envied them. Oh, how he envied them.

He pushed the illogical thoughts aside and walked slowly to the line in front of the serving counter. Two of the crewmen in front of him – he recognized the male as part of Lieutenant Commander Reed’s armoury team and the female as an engineer , but their names escaped him – did not notice his arrival and continued their heated discussion – or was it an argument? Soval could not quite tell, although he suspected it was actually some form of human mating custom. The third person in the line, however, was quite cognizant of Soval’s presence and gave the ambassador a quick, tight-lipped nod before clearing his throat. He fixed the two bickering crewmen with a look.

“You two done yet?” Petty Officer Rostov asked in a voice that rang with authority. “Make a hole for the ambassador,” he ordered.

“That is not necessary,” Soval began, but the engineering petty officer snorted.

“After you saved our collective asses yesterday?” he asked. “I think it is, sir.” He glanced back at the two crewmen. “Thought I told you to get out of the way,” he said softly.

They got out of the way.

“Subcommander T’Pol seemed to like the pasta,” Rostov said as he gestured for Soval to take his place in the line. “Chef sucks at making plomeek-”

“I heard that!” a voice echoed through the closed doors leading to the kitchen, but Rostov ignored it and continued.

“But he’s a master at making anything resembling pasta taste good.”

“Thank you,” Soval said after a moment. He was unsure exactly how to respond – since he came aboard Enterprise fifty-three days earlier, the only humans who had not treated him with open distrust were Commander Hernandez and Lieutenant Sato, although his own less than agreeable attitude toward the assignment had likely affected how he was perceived – so he opted for cautious gratitude.

He also could not disagree with Petty Officer Rostov’s assessment: the plomeek served on Enterprise was beyond deficient – it was positively criminal.

Since his choices were the recommended pasta or a salad with far too many carrots, Soval selected the former, noting the pleased expression that momentarily flickered across Rostov’s face when he did. On impulse, the ambassador also decided to try the small bowl of fruit, which necessitated his need for another utensil. As he stepped clear of the serving counter, he found Rostov standing next to the beverage dispenser.

“The officers tend to forget this sort of thing,” the petty officer said as he met Soval’s eyes, “so I figure nobody bothered to actually thank you for saving our bacon yesterday.” He smiled. “Welcome aboard, Ambassador,” Rostov added with a smile that was both open and sincere.

Soval blinked.

Humans had never ceased to amaze and confuse him – usually at the same time – and this was no exception. Was this the reason that T’Pol had championed the Terran cause as frequently as she had? This sense of … belonging that only humans seemed truly capable of?

Rostov turned away before Soval could respond and took a seat with several other senior enlisted personnel, leaving the ambassador standing there with his tray and a dozen questions racing through his mind. Soval frowned and took a long moment to study the options available on the beverage dispenser. In the end, he decided on simple water even as he silently acknowledged how seductive it was to have so many choices. On a Vulcan starship, one did not have the luxury of choice and accepted what was present without complaint. It was considered an illogical waste of time to have more than one option. His lips tightened.

T’Pol never had a chance. These humans and their seductive openness …

He sighted Lieutenant Mayweather sitting by himself and made a snap decision to avoid eating in the empty captain’s private dining facility. It was only logical, after all; both Captain Archer and Commander Hernandez were in engineering, conducting one of their weekly spot inspections while consulting with Commander Kelby about the state of repairs in the wake of the singularity incident.

“May I join you, Lieutenant?” Soval asked as he drew abreast of Mayweather. The helmsman was haphazardly stirring his meal around – Soval had no idea what it was supposed to be, only that it seemed to consist mostly of carrots. He visibly jumped at the ambassador’s words and shot a quick, panicked look toward the door before grimacing.

“Sure,” he said, sounding much like he’d prefer to walk across the Forge in only his undergarments Soval bit back a sigh – he and Captain Archer had truly done this young man a disservice in their ridiculously illogical power struggle. While he knew the captain was making every effort to make recompense for their foolishness, until now, the ambassador had not had the opportunity and had, in fact, made a conscious effort to limit his interactions with Mister Mayweather. As much as Soval hated to admit it, the emotion of shame had been the driving force behind this avoidance.

“Are you recovering well?” he asked as he took the seat across from the lieutenant. Mayweather shrugged – a purely human gesture that could mean so many different things – before returning his attention to the … food before him. Soval raised an eyebrow. “Is there something wrong with your meal?” he inquired after a moment.

“Yeah,” Mayweather muttered. “It’s horrible.” Soval’s eyebrow climbed even higher.

“If the taste is disagreeable,” he asked, “then why are you continuing to eat it?”

“Because Hoshi made it,” the lieutenant revealed glumly. “She thinks it’s great but honestly? I wouldn’t feed this sludge to a Nausicaan.” Despite his best efforts, Soval felt his lips twitch.

“I see,” he said instead. Mayweather glanced up.

“You’re a diplomat,” he mused. “How do you tell somebody their cooking should be classified as a weapon?”

“Very carefully,” Soval said calmly. “After all,” he added, “she may feel the need to inflict it upon you again in retaliation.” When Mayweather sighed again, the ambassador took a bite of his pasta. He inhaled sharply at the taste – Petty Officer Rostov had not been in error when he recommended this meal.

When the door to dining facility slid open, Mayweather’s head automatically snapped toward it. He visibly relaxed at the sight of Crewman Fuller, and Soval suspected that knew the source of the young lieutenant’s distress. The ambassador had, after all, been forced to render Commander Hernandez unconscious with a nerve pinch when he discovered that she was keeping Mayweather in her cabin against the younger man’s will. It did not appear to be due to any subconscious s****l desire on the commander’s part, but rather because of her aggressive defense of Mister Mayweather against the perceived threats in the form of Captain Archer and Soval himself. Afterward, when the radiation was no longer affecting her, Commander Hernandez had apologized profusely to the helmsman, but it had clearly had an effect.

“Ambassador?” Mayweather had abandoned even the pretext of enjoying his food and was now looking up with a conflicted expression on his face. Soval inclined his head as an indication to continue. “Why did you come looking for me? To fly Enterprise, I mean.”

“You are the chief helmsman, Lieutenant,” Soval said simply, as if that were the only reason. In truth, he had first sought out the captain – no matter his personal disagreements with Archer, Soval could not deny that the man was a superlative pilot and had been the best option to navigate Enterprise through the dangers they faced. Seeing Archer incapacitated by self-doubt and recrimination thanks to the singularity’s radiation eliminated that option, however, so Soval had been forced to rely on his second choice in the matter.

Even if had meant going through Commander Hernandez who had become deranged in her obsessive need to protect Mayweather.

“Guess we were lucky you were aboard, huh?” Mayweather glanced down at his bowl and made a curious face that was both disgusted and resigned, all at once. “I heard Phlox was bouncing off the walls.”

“He was … inconsistent,” Soval admitted. He frowned slightly at the memory of Doctor Phlox under the radiation’s influence; while the humans focused on one single thing to the detriment of everything else, the Denobulan had been unable to finish a single thought and jumped between subjects so quickly and randomly that it was all but impossible to understand his train of thought. Recovering from the radiation’s effects had the side-effect of pushing the doctor’s hibernation period months ahead of schedule.

Peals of laughter rang out from one of the tables closest to the door, and Soval glanced in that direction, raising an eyebrow at the sight of two junior crewmen – Masaro and Fletcher, if the ambassador was not mistaken – engaged in what appeared to be some sort of speed-eating contest while other members of Enterprise’s crew cheered them on. Both of Soval’s eyebrows shot up in surprise when he realized that the two men were consuming Lieutenant Sato’s dish … and both looked to be on the verge of being sick. To the ambassador’s surprise, Mister Mayweather was watching with a smirk and even Petty Officer Rostov appeared to be paying attention, albeit in a bemused sort of way that reminded Soval of a parent watching his children do something illogical.

The hilarity stopped the moment the doors to the cafeteria slid open and Captain Archer entered. He gave the two crewmen a knowing look before rolling his eyes.

“Carry on,” he said wryly before turning toward the serving counter. Still shaking his head, the captain retrieved a cup of coffee from the beverage dispenser and headed for the door. He paused in mid-step. “In my day,” he declared, directing his remarks to Petty Officer Rostov, “we had the loser of these things scrub the impulse manifolds with a toothbrush.” He was through the door before anyone could respond.

“I’m not letting either of you two idiots near my impulse manifolds,” Rostov grumbled as he resumed his own meal. More laughter answered him, and Soval gave Lieutenant Mayweather a look. The helmsman shrugged.

“They’re just blowing off steam,” he said. “We humans tend to do really stupid things after a close call.”

“In my experience, Lieutenant,” Soval replied, “humans do not need close calls to take actions that are questionable.” Mayweather laughed.

“That’s true,” he agreed brightly. “But it sure beats sitting around and doing nothing, right?”

Soval sighed. Sometimes, humans made no sense.