The Destroyer

Chapter 16

“Can I borrow your scanner?” he asked after several long seconds of examination that looked to be little more than pushing and pulling hoses seemingly at random. T’Pol passed the device over and watched in silent interest. “Fuel’s contaminated,” Charles identified a moment later. “Must have gotten some dirt into it, and that’s messin’ up the whole system.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Not with what we’ve got on hand.” Charles leaned back and glowered at the ATV. “For now,” he said, “I think it’ll keep runnin’. For a while, anyway.” He shrugged. “But then, we’re not gonna get very far tomorrow before we run outta gas anyway,” he added.

“Then we shall proceed on foot,” T’Pol said. Charles snorted.

“That’s what?” he asked. “Over two thousand kilometers? Through the ice, snow, and whatever other surprises this planet throws at us?” He shook his head, and T’Pol gave him a sidelong look.

“I did not say it would be easy,” she deadpanned. To her secret delight, he grinned broadly – a real smile, not the pale imitation he’d be flashing for months.

“You’re the master of understatement, T’Pol,” Charles said with a soft laugh. He crouched over the engine once more, absently offering her the scanner as he did. In the far distance – to the south, T’Pol believed – a steady, rhythmic thumping drew her attention away from him and she spent several long heartbeats studying the skyline for indications of danger. At first, Charles didn’t seem to notice, so intent was he on the engine, but when she failed to take the scanner from him, he looked up.

“Something wrong?” he asked. Charles glanced in the direction she was facing, a frown starting to appear on his face. A moment later, he grimaced. “Please tell me that’s thunder,” he muttered.

“Unlikely,” T’Pol replied. “It is too repetitive to be natural.” She closed her eyes, pushed away every distraction, and listened. “Artillery,” she theorized.

“How far away?” Charles asked.

With a hollow boom that rattled the ground, an immense fireball suddenly climbed into the sky before she could respond, forming almost instantly in a distinctive mushroom shape as condensed debris and water vapor exploded outward. From where he stood alongside the ATV, Charles gasped. Horror and fear flashed across his face as he shot T’Pol a startled look, but she ignored it as she took her scanner from him and activated it. There was no reason to hurry, she told herself as she suppressed her own flash of panic. If the detonation had been atomic in nature, they were already too close to the blast radius to avoid lethal doses of ionizing radiation.

“It appears to have been created using conventional explosives,” T’Pol announced a single, agonizing minute later. “I am detecting no indications that a fission or fusion weapon has been used.” Charles sagged backwards, suddenly limp with relief, but seemed unable to tear his eyes from the expanding cloud.

“I thought mushroom clouds only came from nuclear weapons,” he whispered in disgusted awe. A second and third explosion joined the first, though they were much smaller in size, and he flinched with each one. T’Pol shook her head as she studied her readings.

“Any sufficiently large blast will create one inside an atmosphere,” she explained. “I estimate that they are over twenty-five kilometers away.” More booms echoed across the distance.

“Do we run?”

“Not at the moment,” T’Pol decided. “Tomorrow, we will remain here and observe,” she said. “It is far easier to detect a moving target than a concealed, stationary one, so we should be able to determine if the conflict is moving in our direction.”

“And afterwards?” Charles wondered, wincing with every additional explosion.

“We investigate.” At his startled look, she continued. “You were correct when you pointed out that we will not get very far without fuel.”

“And you think we might find some down there,” he finished.

“Among other supplies,” T’Pol replied. She didn’t bother mentioning the possibility of survivors since she didn’t know what they would do if they found any.

Using the tarp, they erected the lean-to by securing it to the ATV and tying it to the unimpressive-looking trees they had parked next to. A second, much smaller tarp was placed on the frozen ground, and atop it went their respective bedrolls. They had replaced the thin, military-issued blankets obtained from the mesa city with much thicker and warmer ones stolen from the Zeon family, but even with them, T’Pol suspected she would shiver most of the night. Charles was asleep within seconds – the stress of their escape the previous night had clearly drained him, but the noises and general discomfort of the ATV seats made sleep impossible for him while she drove.

Nearly an hour passed before T’Pol opened her eyes, unsure exactly why she wasn’t able to get to sleep. She carefully sat up, moving as quietly as possible to avoid waking her companion, and gave the scanner a quick glance, satisfying herself that no other life forms were within seventy-five meters. The booms of artillery and explosions had long since faded away, leaving only a deathly silence that was mildly disconcerting, even to her. A long moment passed before T’Pol realized she was watching Charles sleep, his features illuminated by the light of three moons now bathing the entire snow-covered valley with soft light.

Frustrated at her inability to rest, T’Pol decided that meditation might be in order. She closed her eyes, adjusted her posture slightly, and pushed all other distractions from her mind. With calm breaths, she inhaled control and exhaled chaos. Here, in this place, there were no sounds, no images, no smells. Only peace.

And Charles’ snoring.

To her surprise, she realized that she had incorporated the soft, raspy sound into her meditation, and was using it as a focus. The instant her mind processed this new bit of information, T’Pol’s eyes snapped open. Comprehension dawned, and she stared at his sleeping form. You are a fool, she told herself. You should have expected this.

At some point, her subconscious had apparently linked Charles’ presence with rest and sleep, and the extent to which Vulcans were controlled by their instincts was a closely guarded secret among her people. One hundred and two Ekosi days – eighty-nine point two-five Earth standard, the analytical portion of her brain whispered – with only Tucker as a companion, and at least three-quarters of that time sharing blankets with him had clearly played havoc with her normal sense of privacy. The neuropressure certainly had not helped in that regard, she reflected wryly, no matter how necessary it had been, and T’Pol wondered how she should proceed. To continue along this path, to allow herself to become emotionally invested in Charles, could only lead to pain, especially if the ancient stories about psychic bonds were true.

You are already emotionally invested in him, her conscience pointed out flatly. He was her only companion, her only friend on this world, and T’Pol instinctively knew that he would give his life to protect hers. A primal part of her shivered at the thought, but she pushed the emotion out of her mind to focus on her next course of action. Trust had been earned between them, but it was still fragile, and if she made a misstep, all of their efforts to this point could be for naught. She frowned, considered, reflected.

Without giving herself time to second-guess her decision, T’Pol quickly gathered her blankets and crossed the short distance to where Charles slept. He stirred almost instantly as she draped the second layer over him and woke the moment she slid underneath the covers beside him. Blinking rapidly, he gave her a questioning look through bleary eyes.

“T’Pol?” he slurred.

“I am cold,” she answered, suddenly embarrassed by her weakness. How could she explain to him what she did not entirely understand herself? To her relief, he accepted the answer as the truth and shifted closer to her. T’Pol instinctively relaxed against him, her head dropping onto his chest where she could hear the steady and reassuring beat of his heart. His arm came up around her, pulling the blankets closer, and she could sense him beginning to drift back into unconsciousness. “Go to sleep, Charles,” she whispered as her own eyes slowly closed.

“’s Trip,” he mumbled. “Name’s Trip.” A moment later, he was asleep, and T’Pol realized she was smiling.

“Go to sleep, Trip,” she whispered.

But only the wind heard her words.

Sometimes, he really hated his job.

One hand resting lightly upon his holstered phase pistol, Malcolm Reed glowered at the scene before him and fought the urge to curse. At any other time, he suspected he would be having a loud laugh at Captain Archer’s current situation and appearance. Ridiculous-looking braids hung from the captain’s head, secured to his scalp in some fashion that Malcolm didn’t quite understand, and brilliant body paint covered every exposed centimeter of Archer’s body, which, at the moment, was quite a lot. Thin strips of some sort of cured animal hide served as a loincloth and were the only piece of clothing the man had been allowed. Displaying grace Malcolm didn’t realize he possessed, the captain danced around a tall, leafless tree set atop a raised dais with a similarly dressed Kreetassan who towered over Archer. A sea of robed and hooded Kreetassans encircled the dais, swaying to the beat of unseen drums and watching the captain and their ambassador dance with unblinking eyes.

If Archer wasn’t so bloody exposed, Reed would have found the entire situation hilarious.

“I don’t like this,” Commander Hernandez murmured from where she stood next to him. Like Reed, she was wearing desert utilities and carried a pistol at her side. Worry lines were carved in her forehead as she stared at the curious greeting ritual being played out before them, though Malcolm wasn’t sure if her concern revolved around the captain’s safety or the possibility that she might have to do something similar one day. Based on what Reed had learned about the older woman’s Starfleet service, he suspected it might be a combination of both.

With a background in xeno-anthropology, Erika Hernandez hadn’t served aboard a starship since her junior lieutenant days, and instead had spent the last ten years working alongside human diplomats. According to her official record, she spoke six languages fluently, including High Vulcan and Denobulan, and had close contacts within every major human embassy throughout the quadrant. Her last duty assignment had been on Vulcan as a Starfleet liaison to Ambassador Pollock and, prior to the Paraagan catastrophe, her name hadn’t even been considered for the captaincy of a warp five capable starship. Afterwards, however, her exceptional diplomatic record had shot her to the top of the list, and, for a while, rumors that she would actually displace A.G. Robinson as the captain of Columbia when the NX-02 launched next year began making the rounds. Only her lack of command experience made such an appointment untenable, and Reed wasn’t surprised that the Admiralty had instead assigned her to Enterprise to gain some much needed time in the Big Chair.

Unfortunately, she also knew that she was green, which inevitably led to her being defensive about the decisions she made. Where Captain Archer was, in Malcolm’s opinion, sometimes too bold by half, Commander Hernandez was far too cautious.

“How do you think I feel, ma’am?” he growled, more tensely than he intended. Finishing his latest scan of the crowd, Reed shifted his attention to the upper levels of the almost-coliseum they were in. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled as his eyes sought out the most likely spots for a sniper’s nest. There were too many of them!

Hernandez gave him a quick look – he noticed her well hidden annoyance at his tone, of course, but it was his job to observe those sorts of things – before quickly returning her attention to the captain’s dancing form. Without realizing it, she shuffled a half step closer to where Soval stood next to her, prompting the Vulcan ambassador – was it still correct, Reed wondered, to refer to him as such? – to discreetly put an equivalent amount of space between them once more. Malcolm frowned again; it hadn’t escaped his notice that the two generally sided with one another – Hernandez fancied herself a diplomat, after all – and Reed himself backed most of the captain’s decisions. The tug-of-war between the command crew was in desperate need of a mediator, someone who could bridge the impasse between the two sides…

Someone like Commander Tucker.

It was still hard for Malcolm to accept that his friend had likely been dead for three months now, and he pushed down the guilt that always surfaced when he thought of Trip. Like the captain, Reed had spent every spare moment poring over the data, looking for anything that might reveal the two commanders hadn’t perished in the bombing run by one of the warring factions on Ekos. He’d lost track of how many hours of sleep he had lost studying aerial images obtained by the inconspicuous satellite they’d put into geosynchronous orbit over the landmass Shuttlepod One crashed onto, but no amount of examination had revealed any hint that the commanders survived. The only way they wouldn’t have been noticed, Malcolm had decided, was if they stayed under constant cover by sticking to the treeline, but he didn’t think they would have done something as silly as that knowing that Enterprise was looking for them.

Once again, the back of Reed’s neck began itching, and he realized that he had foolishly allowed himself to get distracted. Trip’s dead, he told himself. Deal with it and move on. Scowling, he let his eyes sweep over the crowd once more, looking for some sign that trouble was coming. On the dais, the captain was twirling and spinning, his every move matched by that of the Kreetassan leader.

“How much longer is this bloody thing going to be?” Malcolm grumbled, suddenly unable to hold his tongue.

“Approximately nine point three minutes,” Soval replied calmly as Hernandez shot Reed a frown. “Providing Captain Archer has sufficient endurance to last that long,” the Vulcan said almost snidely.

“It was in the cultural packet, Mister Reed,” Hernandez said, a chastising tone in her voice. “Didn’t you read it?” Malcolm’s eyes narrowed.

“No, ma’am,” he replied flatly, ignoring the identical expressions of disgusted surprise upon the faces of the Vulcan ambassador and Enterprise’s first officer. “I was too busy studying the tactical analysis of the ongoing hostilities between these people and the Klingons,” Malcolm added as he met Hernandez’s eyes.

She winced and quickly looked away. A completely unprofessional thought flashed through Malcolm’s mind in that moment: Reed 1, Hernandez 0.

Movement among the Kreetassans surrounding the dais drew his attention, and Reed tensed as one of the hooded figures began weaving his way to the elevated stage. He silently cursed himself for not reading the appropriate information – this could be a legitimate part of the ceremony, after all – and mentally began drafting the reprimand he would submit on himself later. Tightening his hold on the grip of his phase pistol, he narrowed his eyes and held his breath. Light glinted off of something the hooded figure held in his hand, and recognition flared instantly.

“Gun!” Reed shouted, drawing his phase pistol and aiming it in a single, smooth motion. At the exact moment, the figure brought his own weapon up, pointing it at the dancing Kreetassan leader while bellowing something that sounded Klingon. Captain Archer was already moving, diving forward into a body tackle that knocked the Kreetassan clear, even as the hooded assassin discharged his disruptor. A flash of emerald light sliced through the air, burning a ragged scar across Archer’s back and slamming into the leafless tree that dominated the dais with an explosion of bark and pulp. Despite the range and the difficulty of the shot, Malcolm squeezed the trigger of his pistol, and a lance of fire flashed out, punching into the back of the now revealed Klingon and dropping him without a sound. A half second later, the Kreetassans around the assassin swarmed him, howling in fury.

The Klingon was dead seconds later, ripped to bloody chunks by the enraged aliens.

His pistol still drawn, Reed darted forward, pushing through the mass of Kreetassans as he tried to reach the dais. He could hear Captain Archer’s groans of pain, as well as Commander Hernandez’s urgent demand for a medic from Enterprise. A heartbeat later – or maybe it was a minute; Malcolm couldn’t tell in the rush of adrenaline and fear – Reed sprang onto the raised stage, his weapon primed. The Kreetassan leader was kneeling over a still conscious Archer, eyes wide.

“Captain!” Malcolm shouted as he reached his commanding officer’s side. To his surprise, Archer began struggling to rise. “Sir, you’ve been hit!”

“It’s just a flesh wound,” the captain retorted, grabbing Reed’s arm for the leverage he needed to stand. The Kreetassan leader rose with him.

“You risked your life for mine,” the alien said, his voice quickly translated to English by the communicator at Malcolm’s side. At his words, the rolling mass of hooded figures surrounding the dais quieted, and Reed suddenly felt the weight of a hundred eyes upon him as he supported the captain’s weight. Commander Hernandez was still trapped in the midst of the crowd, hemmed in by the aliens now staring at the raised stage, but Ambassador Soval had not moved from where he stood. A bored, almost indifferent expression was upon the Vulcan’s face, though Malcolm could see that he held a Starfleet communicator in his left hand.

“That’s what allies do for each other,” Captain Archer said in response to the Kreetassan leader’s comment. He tried to straighten but winced and nearly fell; only Malcolm’s support kept him on his feet.

“Why do you do this thing?” the alien asked.

“There is an old adage on my world,” Archer replied. “Greater love hath no man than this,” he said through clenched teeth, “that a man lay down his life for his friends.” A soft murmur of approval swept through the assembled observers.

“A debt is owed to you, Jonathan Archer of Earth,” the Kreetassan announced loudly. “We name you and yours … Friend.” He abruptly bowed deeply, holding it for long seconds.

“Malcolm,” the captain whispered, “help me.” Wincing at Archer’s hiss of pain, Reed obeyed and then pulled his commanding officer upright once more.

“Attend to your wounds, Friend Archer,” the Kreetassan said a moment later, “and return when you are hale once more so that we may treat you with the honor you merit.” As if by magic, the crowd parted, creating a clear path from the dais to where Soval stood. Suddenly freed, Hernandez sprang forward and slipped the captain’s other arm over her shoulder.

“I didn’t know you were religious,” she said softly as they began half-supporting, half-carrying Archer toward the waiting Vulcan ambassador.

“I’m not,” the captain replied. He grimaced. “Trip’s death just gave me a lot to think about,” he admitted a moment later. Reed nodded in understanding.

“Doctor Phlox is standing by,” Soval said as they drew abreast of him. He raised an eyebrow. “An effective, if painful method of acquiring allies, Captain,” he remarked, almost wryly.

“Gotta keep things interesting,” Archer replied with a wince. Soval frowned slightly, before exchanging a look with Commander Hernandez. She nodded slightly, and the Vulcan suddenly reached forward, clamping fingers down on the captain’s shoulder and squeezing. A bare second later, Archer was unconscious.

“If you will allow me, Commander Reed,” Soval said as Malcolm staggered under the captain’s dead weight. Without waiting for a reply, the ambassador easily hefted the unconscious Archer over his shoulder. At Reed’s questioning look, Soval raised an eyebrow. “We do not know if the Klingon was acting alone,” he remarked flatly, “and I am uninterested in being shot at today.”

“I’m not interested in it any day,” Hernandez grumbled as she began striding quickly toward the waiting shuttlepod.

“Then I suspect,” the Vulcan declared, displaying no hint of strain, “that you have chosen the wrong profession, Commander.” Malcolm gave the ambassador a startled look: was that a joke? He shook his head and returned his attention to watching for any bloodthirsty, suicidal Klingons.

“So much for honor,” he muttered sourly.

The crack of a gunshot woke him from a deep sleep.

Rolling to his feet, Trip instantly realized he was alone underneath the lean-to and there was no sign of T’Pol. Almost at once, panic started to set in, and he scrambled to locate his phase pistol before darting out of the crude structure and into the biting wind. His heartbeat pounded loudly in his ears as he quickly scanned the immediate surroundings, and fear turned his muscles into rubber when he could find no sign of his Vulcan companion. A second distant gunshot echoed across the valley and he sprang forward in the direction it had come from, barely noticing that he hadn’t pulled his boots on despite the snow still on the ground.

“T’Pol!” he called out desperately, jumping in surprise at her nearly immediate response.

“I am here.” T’Pol’s muffled voice drifted from his left, and Trip froze in place, his head snapping toward her. Crouched within a large copse of iced-over trees, she was studying the valley below them with the small binoculars that had been included in one of the survival packs. Very little of her skin was exposed to the cold, but there was no indication that she had been wounded.

“Are you all right?” Trip asked urgently. In response, she tilted her head to one side and gave him a slightly confused look – or at least as confused as a Vulcan could appear with a scarf wrapped around her face and leaving only her eyes visible.

“Why would I not be?” she wondered. Relief washed through Trip so intensely that his knees nearly buckled. He opened his mouth to explain, but T’Pol was already speaking. “Where are your boots, Charles?” she asked. At her words, the sensation of bare feet in frozen slush caught up with his adrenaline-fueled brain, and Trip shivered. Cursing softly, he quickly retraced his steps, grimacing at the burning cold of the snow that crunched underfoot. It didn’t seem fair, he mused darkly as he toweled his skin dry before pulling on some socks, that the feel of freezing snow was almost the same as a plasma burn. Stamping his feet to settle his boots, he paused to flip the blankets back over the single bedroll in what was probably a vain attempt to hold in any residual body heat left there.

T’Pol had not moved from where she was hidden, her attention yet on the valley below, and Trip drew abreast of her as stealthily as he could manage. More gunshots echoed through the hills, sporadic pops that were a constant reminder of the danger they were getting closer to. The sounds weren’t any closer, nor did they seem to be the noises of a pitched battle, but their very existence caused a sliver of concern to crawl up Trip’s spine. Before he could ask her to, T’Pol offered him the binoculars.

“What’s going on?” he asked as he accepted the binos.

“The aftermath of yesterday’s battle,” the Vulcan replied. She pointed, and Trip hefted the binoculars to look in that direction. Large craters littered the terrain around what looked to have once been a train, now derailed and lying on its side like a giant metal centipede. Boxcars, many of which appeared to have recently been consumed by flames, were yet smoldering. Dark plumes of smoke climbed into the sky from both the train and the impact craters that had warped the tracks. Bodies were everywhere, scattered across the battlefield like broken toys.

“I thought you said they were twenty klicks away,” Trip said.

“Twenty-five,” T’Pol corrected, “and that was in reference to the largest of the blasts we saw.”

As Trip swept the binos across the valley, movement caught his eye. Uniformed Ekosians moved through the c*****e like vultures, picking through the bodies as if they were seeking wounded. A pair of the soldiers pulled a native to his feet and shoved him toward a cluster of other survivors already ringed by a squad of men carrying rifles. To Tucker’s horror, the soldiers quickly conversed before raising their weapons and firing at point-blank range. A dozen bodies hit the ground.

“They’re killin’ the prisoners!” Trip exclaimed. He gave his companion a horrified look. “We’ve gotta do something!”

“There is nothing we can do,” the Vulcan replied softly, a hint of sadness in her voice. Trip shot her an incredulous look.

“How can you say that?” he demanded. A second volley of gunfire sounded, and another group of natives fell. “We can’t just sit here and do nothin’!” He glared at her, suddenly hating her Vulcan indifference. “You said we were in this together,” he growled, “and I’ve got a say! Well I say we dosomething!” T’Pol was silent as she gave him a long look. Finally, she exhaled deeply in what he took to be a Vulcan sigh.

“Very well,” she said calmly, her eyes never leaving his. “Which side shall we murder?” Trip blinked.

“What?” He rocked back on his heels, unable to believe what he had just heard.

“We do not have sufficient ammunition for the small arms you acquired from the law enforcement officers for those weapons to be useful,” T’Pol said, “which means we will need to utilize our phase pistols.” She was openly studying him, her eyes unblinking and more alien than he had ever seen them. It didn’t help that her protective scarf concealed the rest of her face. “Since the stun setting appears to be lethal to the natives of this world,” she continued dispassionately, “our intervention will result in fatalities.” At his continued silence, she pressed the point home. “Of course,” she said flatly, “our use of the phase pistols might also lead to difficult questions with the group we aid, so we should be prepared to defend ourselves from them as well.”

“All right,” Trip snapped. He looked away. “You’ve made your point.”

“Have I?” To his surprise, T’Pol reached and placed her hand upon his shoulder, almost forcing him to meet her eyes once more. “I do not wish to allow such barbarity to continue either, Charles,” she said softly, “but we do not have the luxury of mistakes.” The report of another rifle shot echoed through the valley, causing Trip to wince. “At the moment,” T’Pol continued, “we do not know the circumstances leading to this conflict and acting without that knowledge is both dangerous and foolish.”

“So we do nothing,” Tucker muttered bitterly.