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To Go Boldly - Part 3

Author - Distracted
Fan Fiction Main Page | Stories sorted by title, author, genre, and rating

Virtual Season Six Finale

To Go Boldly

By Distracted

Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: It’s been fun, but none of this is mine and I never made a cent
Genre: Romance/Action adventure
Summary: Enterprise heads back to Earth to offload non-combatants and children. The war is escalating, and soon they’ll be called into active combat as the flagship of the fleet. Can they make themselves ready for war in the short weeks they have left?


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Part Three

Lieutenant Travis Mayweather walked with trepidation down the central corridor of the outermost ring of Jupiter Station, looking for apartment 167. It had been two days since his mother had contacted him on Enterprise to tell him that she’d meet up with him at Jupiter Station—two days since she’d casually mentioned that the Horizon had come across a stranded quartet of Betazoid refugees, and “My, isn’t it a small universe, Travis! You’ll never guess who we picked up!”

His mother’s news about Lana had saddened him. Of his daughter’s two mothers, she’d been the one who, in his opinion, was the more stable and rational. Arabella, on the other hand, was flighty, self-serving and shallow. She also loved their daughter without reservation. That fact gave him some small comfort while he contemplated the fearful prospect of his mother spending time in the girl’s company. The deceptive Betazoid charmer had apparently had two weeks to work her devious magic on his mother and turn his behavior with her and her partner—the behavior that had resulted in Maya’s conception—into something for which his mother would never forgive him.

The arrival of Enterprise at Jupiter Station had been a quiet event, unpublicized for reasons of security. The non-essential civilian inhabitants of the Station had all been evacuated at the first news of Romulan encroachment into human space, and so the reception committee had consisted of a contingent of Starfleet Intelligence officers assigned to debrief the crew before they were allowed to set foot in the quarters assigned to them on the station. Travis had gotten away easy; a mere four hours later and here he was, free to have lunch with his family. The rest of the bridge crew would likely be stuck on the ship for a while pending extensive debriefing interviews—especially Hoshi. He didn’t envy her in the least, although the last time he’d seen her she’d seemed to be having a grand old time talking gibberish with that wanna-be beach boy crewman from Engineering she’d attached herself to for the last couple of days of their trip home. It was pretty strange. Travis had always thought that Hoshi and Lieutenant Commander Reed had a thing going. Guess not.

Apartment 166...167. His steps slowed a bit, and then he was there. He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and pressed the buzzer. He had time to wonder fleetingly whether Arabella’s father Galen had kept his promise to show Maya the vids he’d sent, vids in which he’d made a total fool of himself gooing and gaaing for his infant daughter’s entertainment. He’d been too embarrassed to send them directly to Lana and Arabella, but he’d told them he was sending them, at least. The fact that he’d never lied to the women who were bringing up his daughter was, according to Galen, the main reason why Galen had decided to champion his cause. Then the door opened.

His mother’s smile was wide and delighted.

“Travis! Come in! We’re about to sit down to eat.” He could see the table from the doorway, loaded with food.

She didn’t seem angry with him in the least as she embraced him. Across the room, his brother turned from his conversation with a familiar looking Betazoid woman and smiled his welcome as he walked toward them. Travis returned his mother’s enthusiastic squeeze with a hesitant smile. His eyes searched the room over her shoulder.

“DA-DEE!”

The squeal came from under the table. A small whirlwind launched itself from beneath the tablecloth and came barreling across the room, finally materializing into a breathless toddler clinging with both arms to his leg. He laughed down into his daughter’s grinning face as his mother stepped back, watching the two of them with eyes which were suspiciously moist. His brother watched as well, with a tolerant expression.

Travis bent down and hoisted Maya to his chest with both arms beneath her bottom, holding her eye-to-eye. “Hey, baby girl,” he said wonderingly. Galen had kept his promise.

Maya giggled, then wrapped both arms around his neck and clung like a monkey. Over the top of her head Travis caught sight of Arabella on hands and knees coming out from under the table with Lianna at her side. Arabella almost looked like a child herself, her black curls tousled, barely as tall as his shoulder when standing upright. The dark circles beneath her eyes stood out in contrast to her porcelain skin, but in Travis’ eyes she looked even more beautiful than the day he’d met her. When she stood and met his gaze from across the room, her sorrowful expression almost made him pity her—but he’d been fooled before.

“Hey, Travis. You’ve got some explaining to do, bro,” said his brother half-jokingly as he pulled Travis into a one-armed hug designed to avoid crushing the child hanging from around his brother’s neck.

“Yeah...I guess I do,” replied Travis with a shamefaced grimace.

“The explanation is quite simple,” piped Arabella from behind Paul. Both men turned to look at her expectantly. She’d discarded the sad expression Travis had seen a moment before, replacing it with an irresistibly flirtatious grin that Travis found painfully familiar. “He was the best candidate for the job,” she said brightly.

Paul grinned back at her, obviously taken in by her act. Travis gave her a puzzled smile.

“Hello, Arabella,” he said. She smiled back, a bit more subdued, and reached up to give him a kiss on the cheek. Maya detached from around Travis’ neck and reached for her mother, so Travis transferred her without breaking eye contact with Arabella. Maya sat for a second in Arabella’s arms, studying first one face and then the other with a serious expression, and then squirmed to get down. Arabella released her, maintaining eye contact with Travis the entire time, lowering Maya to the ground where she ran off happily to join Lianna back under the table. The rest of the room watched the interaction with interest.

“I’m sorry about Lana,” he continued sympathetically, ignoring the kiss. It was just like Arabella to publicly display affection she didn’t feel. She was undoubtedly up to something. His best guess was that she was trying really hard to make his family like her for some reason.

Arabella’s smile suddenly looked more like a grimace. Her eyes filled. She cleared her throat. Despite his conditioned cynicism where she was concerned, learned the hard way after her deception had destroyed his trust completely, he pitied her.

“You okay?” he whispered, feeling the remnants of his original attraction to her emerge despite himself. Her tears spilled over, and she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face in his chest.

“She’s dead, Travis... I’m all alone,” she whimpered. Travis sighed and awkwardly patted her on the back. Looking over Arabella’s head, he saw his mother smile approvingly. Travis’ heart sank. So that was it. He smiled weakly back at his mother. He was really in trouble now.


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“I trust you’ve reviewed the mission parameters. Any problems?”

Harris’ question was rhetorical, Phillip Norfleet was certain. He stood at attention before the vid screen.

“No, sir. None whatsoever, sir,” he replied with stiff military correctness. Harris was—well, there was no being anywhere in known space with more power over him than Commodore Jeffrey Harris. His career—his very life, even—rested solely on this man’s whim. He stared straight ahead, trying his level best to project do-or-die enthusiasm. To his surprise, Harris chuckled.

“Your fervor is appreciated, Ensign, but this is a strictly voluntary mission. At ease... and tell me if you’re really prepared to do this,” he said almost affably. At Norfleet’s puzzled silence, his smile vanished. “Not that we really have another operative with your skills available to take your place... and, of course, you understand that the successful completion of this mission will ensure your advancement within Starfleet Intelligence...”

Norfleet relaxed marginally. Now this was the Harris he was accustomed to. “I understand, sir,” he replied. His lips quirked upward. “As long as someone’s available to make me pretty again when it’s all over, sir,” he quipped.

Harris chuckled again at that. “Our medical advisor assures me that the procedure is fully reversible, son,” he replied in an amused tone of voice. “As for pretty, well... we don’t claim to work miracles.” His face sobered again. “Your support team is in place, and the necessary DNA records have been modified planetside. Once the exchange has taken place you’ll be on your own until your scheduled pickup.” He paused, eyeing Norfleet sternly. “I expect results. It’s time to take them down.”

Norfleet stiffened again to full attention. “Yes, sir. You can count on me, sir,” he replied emphatically. The vidscreen went dark before he’d finished his sentence. He blinked.

So that was it. It was time.

Norfleet took a deep breath, and then left his cabin to keep his debriefing appointment.


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Phlox surveyed his domain with a dissatisfied expression. Two unfamiliar security guards stood at attention flanking the biobed where Nick Rostov lay sedated and restrained in preparation for transfer. At least he’d convinced them to allow him to sedate the man himself with proper monitoring equipment instead of relying on a partially trained medic to dose the prisoner with something in the brig.

Another two guards flanked the medical transporter in his laboratory, waiting for the technicians from Starfleet Medical who were coming soon to dismantle and remove it for study. A third pair stood flanking the entrance to Sickbay, ostensibly preventing the entry of unauthorized personnel into what had now become the area of highest security risk on the ship. Poor Elena Archer and her twins looked out of place in the midst of all the firepower.

Phlox didn’t like it one bit. Sickbay was no place for weapons. It was a place of healing, not of destruction. That was why he had to bite his tongue to prevent harsh words when yet another armed pair of close-clipped bulletheads in uniform stepped through the doors. Two white coat clad science types, one male and one female, followed them in. The woman, a dark haired athletically built human, stepped forward toward Phlox with a smile and an extended hand as her silent shadows stepped around him, heading directly for his laboratory. He eyed them warily, turning his head to follow them. The woman stood patiently, waiting for him to acknowledge her. When all the uniformed pair did was show ID to the men guarding the medical transporter and then pull tool kits from the hip pouches he’d assumed contained weapons, it finally occurred to him that they were the tech team. The woman cleared her throat, diverting his attention back to her.

“Dr. Phlox! I’m Doctor Wynona Wong with Starfleet Medical,” she said with artificial brightness. “Is there a place we can talk privately?”

Phlox realized then that this woman was his assigned debriefing officer. He sighed. It was all in his reports. An in-person debriefing was a complete waste of everyone’s time, but at least they’d sent someone capable of understanding the significance of his research. He smiled politely.

“I’m afraid I’m on duty, Doctor. My medic is being debriefed, and I can’t leave Sickbay unattended,” he said in his best attempt at an apologetic tone. He certainly didn’t feel apologetic. He hated it when bureaucratic types made it impossible for him to do his job.

“We’ve got that covered, Doctor,” she replied with a determinedly polite smile. “Dr. Louer, here, is fully certified in xenological medicine. He’s a staff physician at the station’s medical facility and is your assigned relief during our session.” The thin, balding, quiet man beside her nodded briefly, gave Phlox a rather cold look in response to the Denobulan’s momentary look of aggravation, and offered a padd which proved to contain bonafide orders requiring Phlox to yield control of Sickbay during his debriefing. Phlox bit his tongue again, and then nodded reluctantly, studying the padd.

“Very well,” he replied brusquely. He pulled the stylus from the side of the padd and entered information for several seconds. Then he handed the padd back to his replacement. “You’ll find everything under control at present, Doctor. As you’re probably aware, the occupants of biobeds two and three and the two incubators are scheduled for transfer to the station’s medical facility today. If any new problems come in, the access code I just gave you will enable you to pull up a schematic of the supplies and equipment available in the department. If you have any questions, you know where to find me.” He smiled very briefly, almost imperceptibly for a Denobulan. Being evicted from his Sickbay mid-shift didn’t sit well with him. Louer didn’t seem to notice.

“Thank you, Doctor, but I don’t anticipate any problems,” replied the human, as expressionless as a Vulcan.

Phlox studied him for a moment. There was something familiar about the man, but he couldn’t place it. Perhaps it was just the coldness in his eyes.

That was it. The “doctor” was also a soldier. He supposed it was to be expected at a military facility.

“Shall we go? We’re on a tight schedule,” prompted the woman expectantly. Phlox, distracted by his study of the man he was expected to trust with his patients, turned toward her and caught sight of Elena Archer over the female physician’s shoulder, dressed and sitting in the chair near her bed rocking one of the twins. With a pang, he realized that if the trio were transferred in his absence he might not see them again for years. His chin came up with determination and he pushed past Doctor Wong, walking toward Elena and the babies. Some things were more important than a bureaucratic timetable.

“In a moment, Doctor. I have something to take care of first,” he said over his shoulder, leaving the two of them standing flatfooted in the middle of the room. His smile broadened as he walked, but he resisted looking over his shoulder at the expressions on their faces.


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Commander T’Pol’s interrogator was a bored looking middle-aged female of equivalent rank. She tapped a stylus rhythmically on the tabletop as she studied T’Pol’s report.

“What do you know about these so-called temporal agents? Did they show you proof of their identities?” she asked absently with her eyes still fixed on the screen.

“They had no verifiable credentials, but based on our previous experiences with temporal agents we had no reason to doubt their claims of legitimacy,” T’Pol replied patiently. She sighed inwardly. The two of them had been face to face, going over her report line by line, for two hours and seventeen minutes thus far. Did the woman think that the facts would change if she asked questions about each one several times in different ways?

“What about the young one... the Vulcan? She remained aboard for several days longer than the others. You and Commander Tucker both report spending quite a lot of time with her, and yet we have almost no information regarding her identity. In what century was she based? Did you speak with her about how close Starfleet might be to developing the technology used by her employers?

“That’s information none of them would divulge. It might have interfered with the proper timeline,” T’Pol answered flatly. Her questioner looked up from the screen and fixed T’Pol with a surprisingly acute look for someone who’d seemed so bored just a moment before.

“And then she just disappeared without warning. Did she give you an explanation? Did you record everything in your report?” she persisted.

T’Pol succeeded in keeping her facial expression under control, but the woman’s line of questioning was beginning to alarm her.

“Her mission was over, and so she left. I am satisfied with the completeness of my report,” replied T’Pol. Her statement was the unvarnished truth. Trip would become a target if the existence of a future Tucker with Vulcan blood were known. That possibility was unacceptable. Just the thought made her acutely uncomfortable.

<<Relax, darlin’. I’m not goin’ anywhere. We’ve gotta make at least one little Tucker eventually, remember? It’s part of the true timeline. T’Mir won’t let anything happen to me.>> Trip’s silent contribution to her inner struggle for control made her jump minutely. Her interrogator didn’t appear to notice.

<<T’hy’la, I’ve asked you not to do that. It’s very disconcerting when you offer commentary in my head without warning,>> she remonstrated mildly. In reality, his mental presence soothed her, calming her discomfort.

The woman continued to study T’Pol’s report with great concentration.

<<Sorry, darlin’,>> Trip replied, but the emotions she was picking up from him in the bond didn’t feel the least bit contrite. He was bursting at the seams to tell her something, but he’d gotten so good at shielding that she couldn’t tell what it was. He was doing it deliberately, she knew. He enjoyed tormenting her. Or rather, he enjoyed her reaction when she objected to his teasing.

T’Pol sat with forced serenity opposite the intelligence officer and tried her best not to allow the impatient curiosity she was feeling to slip past her shields. It was a losing battle, and she could sense what amounted to Trip’s mental chuckle as he realized how eager she was to learn his news.

<<I am in the midst of my debriefing, husband,>> she reminded him. <<Distractions could make me careless.>>

<<Ah...so you think I should just tell ya my news... that way ya won’t be distracted, right?>> Trip replied archly.

<<It would be the logical solution,>> she returned reasonably.

<<Or I could just wait until you’re done....>> There was a frustratingly tantalizing pause, and then, <<That would probably be best. ‘Bye, hun!>> he finished cheerfully. To her consternation, his barriers came up completely.

“All right, Commander. That’s all. I’ll call you if I need you again,” said the woman briskly. She pushed back from the table and stood up. T’Pol nodded regally, but said nothing as the intelligence officer left the room.

As soon as she was alone in the conference room, T’Pol abandoned her serene facade, pushed to her feet with an irritated expression, and hurriedly departed to find one very aggravating Chief Engineer.


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Captain Jonathan Archer, who’d been closeted in his ready room in the hours since his first-on-the-list debriefing, stood to receive a Starfleet legend, the indomitable Admiral Ezra Black. The old admiral entered the room slowly and stiffly, as if moving too rapidly caused him pain. He was even grayer and grimmer than the last time Archer had seen him in publicity footage touting the new Daedalus cruisers as the workhorses of the “New Starfleet”. The idiots in public relations had come up with that one, to boost public confidence during the war. Unfortunately, all the campaign seemed to have accomplished was to warn the Romulans that the new ships were coming.

Since Archer’s arrival to Jupiter Station he’d been studying confidential Starfleet intelligence reports provided by the officer who’d debriefed him. The tide had been turning in recent battles—in the Romulans’ direction. He was just beginning to realize how much information about the progress of the war had been unavailable to him—or perhaps deliberately kept from him—in recent months.

Archer pulled out a chair for the admiral and seated him before taking his place at the table. To his surprise, they were alone in the room. The padd the intelligence officer had given him sat on the tabletop between them with the most recent battle statistics on the screen. Admiral Black looked briefly at it with a sour expression and then got right to business.

“I see you’ve finally read the reports,” he said tersely, almost as if he were accusing Archer of something. The younger man’s heart sank. This didn’t look like it was destined to be a pleasant visit.

“Ah...yes, sir,” he replied with a rueful expression. “I had no idea things had gotten this bad.”

“That’s because Starfleet’s had you swathed in cotton wool for the past year, son... but I’m here to set you straight,” replied the admiral disapprovingly. Archer took a deep breath, swallowed, then gave the old man a sickly half-smile and his full attention. The shit was about to hit the fan.

“A year ago when we discovered your diplomatic screwup with the Betazoids, I advised Starfleet Command to relieve you of command of the Enterprise and just send you to Betazed rather than send the entire ship and its crew on a diplomatic mission,” began the admiral bluntly. At Archer’s look of offended surprise, Black clarified without apology, “That would have left Enterprise free to engage the enemy with the rest of the fleet.”

Archer nodded in sudden understanding. As much as he would have hated the idea on a personal level, it did seem tactically sound. It was strange that no one had even broached the subject with him at the time.

“Starfleet Command dismissed the idea,” continued the admiral. “Apparently, a few of its more conservative members were of the opinion that trusting Enterprise to an inexperienced captain was too much of a risk, and that keeping an NX-01 class starship ‘in reserve’ and out of the action would be Earth’s best defense in the event of a strong push by the Romulans—never mind that it cut our offensive capability by a considerable margin—and that soon the Enterprise was gallivanting all over the sector, no where near close enough to Earth to provide any meaningful defense but still at risk, engaging in solo battles against Romulan ships without any support from Earth forces...” Black shook his head, obviously frustrated.

“But, sir... I was never even offered the option of stepping down from command,” protested Archer.

“I know that!” retorted the admiral, “Why do you think this situation’s been such a thorn in my side? It’s the admiralty that’s the problem. Sometimes I can’t decide whether some of them are too stupid to see what’s right in front of them or whether they’re deliberately trying to sabotage our efforts. They won’t make use of their resources, and now look where it’s gotten us.” He gestured to the dismal battle statistics on the padd in front of him with a disgusted expression. “At first, I accepted the losses as the cost of learning unfamiliar battle tactics, but we’ve had time now to learn the Romulans’ weaknesses...” He paused, glaring at Archer as if the whole thing was his fault. The captain of the Enterprise did his best to look appropriately attentive, but he was beginning to be concerned about the old man. That much anger and frustration couldn’t be good for him. Finally, Archer raised a brow like a Vulcan, waiting.

“They don’t have any weaknesses to speak of, according to our most recent analyst reports. What’s your opinion of that?” asked Black in challenge.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I can think of at least two right off the top of my head,” replied Archer earnestly. “Their warp cores are inadequately shielded... and they tend to fight to the last ship even against impossible odds. Retreat generally isn’t an option for them unless their mission is strictly reconnaissance, and the Enterprise has even had armed conflicts with ships which I assume were reconnaissance vessels. From that I have to conclude that their culture frowns upon retreating from combat even when the odds are unfavorable for engagement. We can use that to our advantage, can’t we?”

Black paused, eying the younger man with a surprised expression. Jonathan Archer wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or not by the admiral’s obvious assumption that he was a tactical idiot. He’d been the captain of a warp-capable starship longer than anyone else on Earth. He had to have learned something on the job.

“Yes...” replied Black cautiously. “Actually....I’ve been trying to tell our strategists that for months now,” he said, eyeing Archer with the trace of a smile. “Where’s your tactical station? We need a holographic display to consolidate our ideas. We might as well be in agreement when we go before Starfleet Command to propose a damage control plan.” He eyed Archer with a calculating expression. “You’re their golden boy, after all. If you can get them to listen to us, maybe we might even have a chance to win this damned war.”


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Jacob Louer watched the Denobulan doctor reluctantly leave Enterprise’s Sickbay, herded by Wynona. It was too bad he wasn’t human. Any human male would have been only too happy to spend two hours closeted alone in a room with the curvaceous Doctor Wong. As it was, it had been like pulling teeth to get the guy to leave with her.

“We’re ready, Doctor,” said Watsky. “Team Two is on its way.” Louer turned to find one of the two young medics charged with the operation of the medical transporter standing at his shoulder, extending a device toward him. The young man’s buzz cut made him look more like a soldier than a healer, but that was all right by Louer. He nodded, took the bioscanner from Watsky’s hand, and then walked over to the sedated prisoner. At his order, Rostov was transferred from the biobed to a mobile stretcher and wheeled to the lab to take his place beside the medical transporter.

No consent had been asked from Petty Officer Michael Nikolai Rostov for the procedure he was about to undergo, but Rostov was guilty of treason, so his ass belonged to Starfleet to do whatever was required in compensation for his crimes. What Louer was about to do was a damn sight better than execution, and the psychotic engineer would get the best medical care Starfleet could offer for the rest of his life in exchange. Louer was military through and through. The ethical grey areas in which he operated no longer disturbed him. He knew his duty.

Louer scanned Rostov’s body slowly, and then checked the image in the bioscanner for errors. As he did so, the main doors of Sickbay burst open. Louer pulled the curtain shut about the prisoner.

“Where’s Phlox?” shouted a burly young man. He had an unconscious crewmate slung over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. The name badge on his uniform said “Mitchell”. He was followed in by two security officers in Jupiter Station uniform.

Louer stepped forward and directed the crewman to an empty stretcher, where the muscular fellow rather unceremoniously unloaded his limp companion.

“Doctor Phlox is in debriefing. I’m Doctor Louer. What’s happened here?” he asked the agitated young man. As the crewman began to speak, Louer eyed the pair of guards reprovingly over the young man’s head.

“Norfleet was walkin’ out of the debriefin’ room while I was walkin’ in, and then he just collapsed!” explained Mitchell in a concerned voice.

“Crewman Mitchell insisted on carrying Ensign Norfleet to Sickbay rather than waiting for a stretcher to become available,” clarified one of the guards in a neutral voice.

“I see,” replied Louer dryly. He turned to the figure on the stretcher and passed the bioscanner over Ensign Norfleet’s body. As far as he could determine, the intelligence officer he’d been assigned to assist was in perfect health. Despite this, a convincing performance was required for security reasons. Fortunately, Jacob Louer was an excellent actor as well as a proficient surgeon. His expression became gravely concerned as he studied the bioscanner images.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave, Crewman. Your friend has sustained a brain hemorrhage from a cerebral aneurysm. I’ll have to operate immediately.” Louer beckoned to the two guards standing outside of the curtain shielding the operative transporter and Rostov’s stretcher, and they moved forward to take possession of Norfleet’s stretcher, whisking it within the curtained alcove and out of sight. Mitchell stood there with a stricken expression on his face. He obviously considered Norfleet a friend. It was enough to move anyone to pity, or at least almost anyone.

“You may return to your duties, Crewman. I should know more about the ensign’s prognosis in an hour or two,” said Louer brusquely. Then he turned toward the curtain. There was no time to coddle the boy. He had to complete his task before Phlox returned.

Behind the curtain, Norfleet opened his eyes as Louer scanned his body with the bioscanner and then stepped to the medical transporter. Space was cramped within the small lab. The two medics checked the instrument settings a final time.

“Are you ready?” asked Louer respectfully. He outranked Norfleet, but anyone willing to do what Philip Norfleet was about to do deserved respect.

Norfleet took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and replied, “Go ahead.”

There was a low frequency hum as the figures on the stretchers appeared to exchange places. A pause of several seconds followed, and then “Rostov” opened his eyes. Louer stepped toward his stretcher and began scanning his body for transcription errors. The medical transport of skin structures was a science in its infancy, and he’d had only two weeks to extend Phlox’s work with prevention of transplant rejection from guinea pigs to humans. For two years he’d been working with a standard transporter modified by Starfleet R&D. The technology had this far saved the lives of twelve crewmen and women with otherwise fatal plasma burns who’d made it back to Earth after battles with the Romulans, but the results had been far from perfect, and frequent rejection of the transplants had been a major drawback. This unit was orders of magnitude more precise than anything he’d ever worked with before, and Phlox’s novel technique would no doubt revolutionize the field once it was published in the medical literature. Louer would otherwise have never attempted what he’d apparently just succeeded in doing—a complete epidermal exchange with facial transplant in two otherwise healthy subjects.

“Will you do the procedure soon, Doc?” whispered “Rostov” to Louer. He gazed around the curtained alcove with a bewildered expression on his face. His eyes widened when he caught sight of the occupant of the neighboring stretcher. “Oh...” he added, looking a bit unsettled. Then he swallowed, and stared straight up at the ceiling again.

“Good job, Doc. I’m ready to go, now,” he said firmly.

Louer smiled wryly. You’ll do, son, he thought approvingly. You’ll do.


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“The transport comes for us tomorrow at 0900. We’ll be staying in the Betazoid Embassy in San Francisco,” reported Marella, who’d been in conversation with Paul Mayweather to the virtual exclusion of everyone else in the room for the entire meal. Lianna and Maya were playing in the next room with the door open, having made swift work of their lunch. Small voices and high pitched laughter wafted in from time to time, making the adults smile. Travis was flanked by his mother and Arabella, who’d both been unusually quiet since they’d finished helping the girls from the table, seemingly content to eavesdrop on Marella’s conversation with Paul.

Travis couldn’t talk to anyone. His mouth was full. He reached across the table, speared the last resequenced protein patty with his fork, brought it to his lips, and took a huge bite, savoring the familiar taste with a smile. He had no idea why his crewmates wouldn’t ever touch the stuff. It tasted like home to him.

“I knew you’d missed my protein patties, Travis,” said his mother approvingly under her breath. “Your brother thought you’d be spoiled for fresh foods by now, since Enterprise always gets the best provisions, but I knew better. My patties were always your favorite.” She smiled at him fondly as he chewed. Out of the corner of his eye, Travis noticed Arabella cutting a small piece from the untouched patty on her plate and tentatively taking a bite. He smirked a bit at the expression on her face and took another huge bite of his own, smiling back cheerfully at his mother. He supposed they were an acquired taste.

“The seasoning is...distinctive,” coughed Arabella as she reached for her drink and took a healthy swig. “What do you use?” Her eyes were wide and a bit watery from the spices, but she actually sounded sincere. Travis sighed. Now his mother was going to think the girl wanted to cook for him!

“It’s an old family recipe of hot peppers, allspice, and thyme...one version of what’s commonly known as Caribbean ‘Jerk’ seasoning,” confided Rianna, laughing as Arabella fished a cube of ice from her drink and popped it into her mouth to cool her tongue. “Don’t tell me there’s no pepper on Betazed?” she teased. Arabella smiled sheepishly.

“We have many herbs we use for cooking, but I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything quite like this before,” she replied, a little indistinctly around the melting ice cube. To his dismay, Travis found the resulting lisp endearing. He tried to ignore her and focused on his plate, chewing determinedly.

“I’d like you to show me how to make it sometime. I really enjoy learning new recipes,” Arabella continued, her eyes cutting toward Travis as she smiled shyly. Rianna beamed.

Travis groaned inwardly. This was really going too far. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and pushed back from the table.

“Arabella, let’s go for a walk,” he announced firmly. “We have some things to discuss.”

Arabella’s eyes widened in alarm. “But, you just got here...and you haven’t seen your family in months, and I have to watch the girls!” she protested.

“Nonsense! Go ahead, you two! We old folks’ll still be here when you get back! The girls’ll be fine,” insisted Rianna with a broad smile. She rose from the table, watched in apparent approval as Travis pulled Arabella reluctantly to her feet, and practically pushed them out the door.


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From his usual table in the back of the room, over the remnants of his lunch, Trip Tucker watched his friend and crewmate Malcolm Reed enter Enterprise’s dining hall. The security chief had a preoccupied expression on his face. He collected food and drink and sat down to eat at the closest table with the air of a man on automatic pilot.

Trip was worried about him. Their master plan to get Hoshi stationed planetside had not gone well. Hoshi had applied to Starfleet’s Intelligence division, all right—and had promptly been advised of her new position as head of the real-time translation team to be stationed on Starfleet’s yet-to-be-announced flagship. Her new posting would be taking her not only away from Earth, but into the thick of battle, where Starfleet Intelligence had hopes that she would be able to crack the codes the Romulans were using for transmissions during combat. It was a phenomenal opportunity for her to use her skills and a major career advancement. He knew that. Malcolm knew it, too. It was just that the promotion had thrown a monkey wrench into the Englishman’s carefully considered and long-anticipated marriage plans, and Trip wasn’t sure if his friend’s spirit could take the shock. Just the idea of Hoshi going into combat on a ship which didn’t include the rest of them in its crew complement had thrown all three of them for a loop.

Trip rose from his table and moved toward Malcolm’s, intending to offer commiseration and the sort of support only a man in a similar fix could provide. Sometimes being in love with a military officer in wartime seriously sucked. He paused when he saw Hoshi, looking tired and pale, walking slowly toward Malcolm’s table with a drink and a food tray in hand, and realized that three was a crowd. Depositing his used dishes in the recycler on the way to the door, he left the dining hall at a brisk walk, having decided to take advantage of the last few minutes of his lunch break to run an errand.

The Jupiter Station engineering team was scheduled to inspect and overhaul Enterprise’s warp and impulse engines starting at 1300 hours, and he had no intention of allowing them to touch anything without his approval. He had just enough time beforehand to check with the captain to see if Starfleet Intelligence would allow crew members to leave the ship while debriefings were still ongoing. His plans that evening depended on the presence of all of their friends at a surprise gathering onstation. He grinned broadly as he walked. T’Pol was gonna freak.


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They were silent on their way to the section’s observation lounge. Arabella eyed Travis’ grim expression warily as they walked. His face appeared sculpted from flawless metal, bronzed in the manner of some ancient Earth statue, and even more beautiful. His anger was unmistakable.

She deserved it, she supposed. What she’d had done to him was inexcusable among both their peoples. He’d been a good sport about it for Maya’s sake, but he’d never understood the whole picture. Lana had never understood either. Arabella wasn’t certain she really comprehended it herself. Before Lana’s death she’d been certain that her attraction to Travis was a purely biological thing. Lana was her soul mate. Travis was... what? Her one night stand? Her guilty pleasure? Merely the father of her child?

It hadn’t been an issue at home on Betazed. No Betazoid male had ever caught her attention. They were weak...spineless. She’d wanted a take-charge partner like Lana. Gender was honestly less important than a certain personality...that sparkle of energy, that drive that Lana had possessed. Now, the sparkle had been extinguished for...had it been only two weeks? And she recognized a similar drive in Travis, the personality that, along with his breathtaking beauty, had prompted her to allow him to father their child to begin with. She felt dirty, guilty to feel this way so soon. It was as if the feelings had always been there, waiting for the correct environment to come forward. As she grieved for Lana, she longed for Travis to comfort her, and felt ashamed of herself for her fickleness.

When they arrived at their destination, the lounge was deserted. No one on board the station had time to just sit and look at the stars anymore, thought Arabella. Everyone who wasn’t vital to station operations was already planetside. Travis stopped walking only when he was virtually nose-to-nose with the observation window. She stood beside him, looking up at his profile. The top of her head barely reached his broad shoulders. He stared out at the unblinking stars, still avoiding her gaze, and his expression softened as if he were seeing old friends. Then he sighed.

“Beautiful,” he whispered wistfully.

“Very,” she replied softly, not sparing the window a second glance, smiling sadly as she watched his face and the interplay of emotions on it. His deep brown eyes met hers, and she saw his puzzled frustration at her double meaning.

“Just what is it that you want from me?” he asked plaintively.

Arabella blinked at that, taken aback by his directness. She studied his face for several seconds, contemplating her answer. The main problem was that she really wasn’t sure what she wanted—except that she wanted time to figure it out.

“A second chance?” she ventured hesitantly.

“To do what?” he replied suspiciously.

Arabella looked down then, unable to bear his hurt and anger anymore. His fists were clenched at his sides. She took one strong dark hand in both of hers and teased it open. Then she interlaced her fingers with his and turned toward the observation window.

“To gain your trust,” she said simply.

They stood side by side for a moment, looking at the stars. He’d ship out again in less than a month, she knew that. He was the father of her child, and her only source of physical comfort left in the universe; she knew that, too. He said nothing. She wasn’t sure yet what his answer would be, but at least his fingers still gripped hers. It was enough for now. It had to be.


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After discovering that her husband was too busy in Engineering guarding his beloved engines from nefarious Jupiter Station personnel to discuss his tantalizing exchange with her earlier that day, and following being waylaid by an excited Captain Archer and his new mentor concerning the presentation they planned to make to Starfleet Command on their return to Earth—after several hours of strategic discussion—T’Pol had decided to retire to her cabin for meditation when the call from San Francisco came in. She activated the viewscreen. Ambassador Soval appeared very concerned. As a matter of fact, although it had been some time since she’d interacted with members of her own species, it certainly seemed to her that for a Vulcan he seemed genuinely distressed.

“May I help you, Ambassador?” she inquired, forgoing a greeting as an illogical waste of time in the midst of a crisis.

“I have just been informed by Jupiter Station authorities of the presence of Minister Kuvak of the High Council in their medical facility, reportedly in guarded condition,” replied Soval, just as abruptly. “The physician there has requested permission to transfer him to our compound here in San Francisco via Starfleet medical transport immediately, primarily because—and I quote—he ‘doesn’t want him to die so far away from his own people’. Minister Kuvak, on the other hand, is insisting on being transported to Houston Hobby Spaceport instead. He’s refusing to take my calls and will not listen to reason. I understand that his son lives near Houston, but Vulcan-knowledgeable medical professionals are difficult to find in Houston. I require your assistance with a compromise.”

T’Pol gazed back at him in concern. Barring the Chief Minister herself, Kuvak of Vulcan was without doubt the premier statesman of Vulcan, one of the few remnants of the old regime, a visionary who’d adapted to the newly revealed teachings of the Kirshara with surprising flexibility for such an old man. His death would be a great blow to all of Vulcan, especially if it occurred prematurely on Earth due to a lack of available facilities.

“I asked my superiors why I was not informed of the minister’s plans to visit Earth,” continued Soval. “I was told that it was a personal voyage unrelated to his duties, and that he’d been placed on permanent medical leave from the High Council over six months ago. Do you have knowledge of this?”

T’Pol raised a brow. That shed some light on the situation, at least. A permanent medical leave was granted only in the case of incurable terminal illness. Minister Kuvak had known of his imminent death for at least six months. That explained his insistence on Houston. He was racing the clock of his impending demise in order to get to his son. Unfortunately, that fact would not make his death without access to adequate medical care any less of a diplomatic disaster.

“I do not, but I will speak to the minister and find an acceptable alternative,” promised T’Pol. Soval relaxed visibly at her confident tone. He nodded, acknowledging her statement. His gratitude was obvious but unspoken.

“I will await your report, Commander,” he told her. The screen went dark.

T’Pol stared at the screen for a moment, wishing that she felt as confident as she’d acted for Soval’s benefit. Then she rose and left to find the captain. From the tales Trip had told her, Jonathan Archer had had firsthand experience with a stubborn and terminally ill father. Perhaps he could be of assistance.


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Jonathan Archer, released finally from his hours-long strategy session with Admiral Black, stopped for the third time at a directory on his quest for the location of the station’s medical center. Enterprise was still considered a high security area, and all civilians had been removed by order of Starfleet Intelligence. Elena Archer and her children, being yet in somewhat fragile medical condition, had been transferred to the station infirmary. Archer had also discovered, to his dismay, that one of the crew had collapsed following his debriefing—some sort of brain aneurysm, he’d been told—and had been transferred off the ship. Not only that, but Minister Kuvak of the Vulcan High Council had arrived and had somehow ended up occupying a bed, and Janice Hess was under observation for suspected early labor. Archer was off to visit all of them, provided he was able to find the place. Jupiter Station was huge.

He’d set out in the company of his second in command. T’Pol had asked him some rather personal questions about his father’s final days without giving a reason for her sudden curiosity. He’d done his best to engage her in conversation, thinking that maybe she’d finally begun to process her mother’s death and hoping that she would open up in return. After only a few minutes, though, they’d been offered a ride by one of the station security officers in one of the small electric carts that station residents used to get from place to place. T’Pol had hastily accepted, seeming to be in a hurry for some inscrutable reason she chose not to reveal, but he had foolishly turned it down, thinking that a walk would do him good. Two kilometers and twenty minutes later, he was hopelessly lost.

Archer was standing in front of the directory display scratching his head when the hum of an electric vehicle came down the corridor. He turned to find a cart full of familiar smiling faces.

“Need a lift, Cap’n?” Trip asked. He was riding shotgun with Travis, who piloted the cart with an air of familiarity, steering with one hand while holding a wide-eyed infant with a definite family resemblance on one knee. A beautiful young Betazoid woman was squeezed between Travis and Trip. She also had one hand on the infant, but her huge dark eyes were on Travis. On Trip’s lap sat a very familiar little girl with black on black eyes and a head full of dark curls. She’d grown quite a lot since Archer had seen her last. She smiled at him impishly.

“We saved you a seat in the back, Captain. We’re gonna go surprise T’Pol. Wanna come?” Lianna asked. Archer laughed.

The second seat of the three-seated cart held Rianna and Paul Mayweather and a Betazoid woman who was familiar to Archer. Marella of the Sixth House, maybe? Where had all the Betazoids come from? The third seat held Malcolm and Hoshi, with room to spare.

“Are we having a party?” he quipped as he climbed aboard. Malcolm smiled just a fraction, an expression that didn’t reach his eyes.

“So I’m told, sir,” he replied. Hoshi had eyes for no one but the Englishman, her face much too serious for such a lighthearted occasion. Abruptly, Jonathan Archer remembered her transfer, and realized the source of their solemnity. He debated whether what he was about to do amounted to a breach of protocol, and decided that the news was bound to come out soon anyway. Why force everyone to endure Malcolm’s well-practiced doom and gloom for the entire evening?

“I hear congratulations are in order, Lieutenant,” he told Hoshi quietly with a smile. “Keep this under wraps for now, but Starfleet Intelligence has claimed its own space aboard Enterprise. We’ve been made the flagship of the fleet, so now you’ll have your own office and a brand new title, ship’s Chief of Intelligence Operations.” He grinned more broadly as both Malcolm and Hoshi grew wide-eyed at his revelation. “Don’t let it go to your head, now. I’m still the captain,” he joked softly.

“I’m staying aboard? Really?” whispered Hoshi in delight. At Archer’s amused nod, she wrapped her arms around a genuinely relieved-looking Malcolm Reed and squeezed. Malcolm gazed over her head at his captain, evidently realizing that Archer had revealed privileged information prematurely for their sakes. He smiled wryly.

“Thank you,” he mouthed silently. Archer smiled back, nodding, and then deliberately averted his gaze until Hoshi remembered where she was and pulled away from Malcolm to a decorous distance, looking a bit sheepish but very self-satisfied. Malcolm, of course, seemed to be in a much better mood.

Archer leaned forward to tap Paul Mayweather on the shoulder.

“So...how is it that the Horizon ended up on Jupiter Station, and where did all these Betazoids come from?” he asked curiously. Mayweather’s colorful response entertained them all the rest of the way to the medical center.


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“I will agree to being ‘evaluated and stabilized’ at the San Francisco Spaceport by a Vulcan physician. I will also agree to periodic visits by said physician at my new home in College Station,” said the fragile-appearing old man imperiously. T’Pol had discovered, to her surprise, that a condominium just off university grounds had already been purchased and furnished for that purpose. The minister was nothing if not thorough in his preparations. He looked much stronger than she’d expected, sitting rigidly upright in his hospital bed within the drab and windowless room. T’Len stood at his bedside.

“I will not, however, agree to enter the San Francisco Vulcan compound or any other restricted enclave. That is not why I have made this voyage,” the minister continued firmly. “I intend to remain on Earth for the remainder of my life and interact with the culture which my son has chosen to join. It is my dying wish, and I insist that it be respected.”

T’Pol, rendered speechless by the minister’s still considerable persuasiveness, exchanged a look with T’Len. The older woman shrugged minutely, raising a brow. This was, apparently, the best offer they were going to get.

“Agreed,” T’Pol conceded. “I would like to point out, however,” she continued tenaciously, “...that if you should become injured or lose your life through human action or inaction, there could be a detrimental effect on Earth/Vulcan relations. Perhaps if you would allow a security detail to be assigned to you....”

Kuvak harrumphed disapprovingly. T’Len gave him a reproving look, and he sighed, actually rolling his eyes.

“I will allow it,” he told T’Pol crustily, “...but only in the spaceports and in transit, not in my home.”

T’Pol nodded in acknowledgement, impressed by T’Len’s ability to handle the old man. Of course, the woman had always been an excellent negotiator. T’Pol couldn’t ever recall winning an argument with her, and T’Pol had been an unusually argumentative child.

“Very well, Minister. I will communicate your wishes to...” began T’Pol. The old man interrupted her.

“That title is no longer accurate. I am Kuvak,” he replied. “Kuvak of College Station, Texas.” He gazed directly at her in complete seriousness. T’Pol thought the appellation quite amusing, and wondered whether it was possible that he’d just made a joke. The implications were interesting, to say the least. She decided to take the statement at face value but found herself unable to voice the name without an unseemly show of emotion, so she simply nodded to both of them and turned to leave. T’Len followed her out of the minister’s room, closing the door behind them.

“It is agreeable to see you again, T’Pol,” said T’Len, pausing in the corridor with an expectant look on her face.

“And you,” T’Pol replied politely, uncomfortable with the emotions the woman’s unexpected appearance had aroused. She hadn’t seen T’Len since returning home from her Kas-wan, when tradition had decreed that the services of a nanny were no longer required. She’d cried that day, despite her achievement. It had been difficult to let go of this woman who’d been like a second mother to her.

“I was grieved to learn of your mother’s passing,” offered T’Len. T’Pol raised a brow. It was generally considered ill-mannered to express grief so long after the death of another. What was done was done. T’Len seemed to be offering the comment as a means of expressing her condolences without implying that T’Pol still grieved. From what T’Pol could recall from her childhood, it was typical of T’Len to so strictly adhere to custom.

“Her loss was very unfortunate,” T’Pol finally agreed, “...but her beliefs have been justified...primarily through the work of those such as Chief Minister T’Pau...and Minister Kuvak.”

“Indeed. It must be gratifying to know that her contributions will be remembered,” T’Len replied.

T’Pol nodded solemnly in agreement. Being with T’Len brought back memories of so many childhood arguments. She suppressed a childish urge to shout, in human fashion, “Screw her contributions! I want my mother back!”

Then the urge passed, as they all generally did if she managed to maintain control. T’Len had taught her that.

Down the corridor, the sounds of music and laughter in both adult and childish voices emanated from the common waiting area. The two women exchanged puzzled glances before walking side by side down the hall.

The room had been empty when T’Pol had passed by only moments before. Now it was full, and for a moment its occupants were unaware of her presence. Elena Archer held court at one end of the chamber, watching from her wheelchair as a small group of admirers gently passed her two children from arm to arm. The smaller of the two bundles seemed content to stare up at each new face in fascination. The larger and noisier twin ended up back in her mother’s arms in short order after expressing her extreme displeasure and gracing Lieutenant Commander Reed with a chest full of partially digested mother’s milk.

Lieutenant Commander Hess sat next to Mrs. Archer, watching and laughing. She appeared to be in no distress and still quite pregnant. Apparently her presentation to Sickbay earlier that day in “early labor” had been a false alarm. Strangely enough, two of the women in the ring of baby enthusiasts appeared to be Betazoid.

A rapid visual search of the rest of the room found no Jonathan Archer. Presumably he’d made it to the medical center on foot after her narrow escape from another rambling and incomprehensible discussion involving the meaning of life and quite possibly the birth of another species of antelope. He must still be making his rounds.

She searched the crowd for her husband. She could sense his presence and the fact that he was up to some mischief, but he still had his shields up. Abruptly, she felt as well as heard a high pitched squeal that made her wince involuntarily.

“I believe that you have an admirer,” remarked T’Len ironically as a curly-headed guided missile shot up from her hiding place behind the sofa and ran full tilt across the room directly at T’Pol. Trip stood up from behind the sofa, laughing so hard he nearly fell over at the expression on her face.

“SURPRISE!!!” shouted Lianna happily in her highest register. She hit T’Pol’s thighs with her full weight and grabbed hold. T”Pol staggered for a moment, held upright by a helping hand from a serenely amused T’Len, and stared down at the child in shock.

<<Where did you come from?>>

She’d said her goodbyes. She’d done her grieving. This is impossible, said her logical mind.

A pair of small arms around her waist made logic a liar. Lianna grinned up at her.

<<I came to see you, so now you don’t have to be sad. Isn’t it a good surprise?>> she sent cheerily.

T’Pol reached down and laid a slightly trembling hand atop her head. She blinked several times, barely managing to keep tears at bay. The joy welling within her chest threatened to force an unseemly public show of emotion, but she contented herself with a mental exchange of affection so strong that it made both Lianna and Trip laugh and cry at the same time.

“Yes, Lianna,” she said softly. “It’s a very good surprise.”

End of Part 3

To be concluded in Part 4



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