Alternatives 1-4

Alternatives

By Samantha Quinn

Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don’t own those found herein. No profit is being made.
Summary: When Trip returns to Earth following the events of “Home,” he is offered a promotion.
Genre: Angst, Romance, Wildly A/U after “Home,” Trip/T’Pol, mentions of T’Pol/Koss
Spoilers: “Home.”
A/N: I’m better at writing T’Pol’s POVs, but I had to start with Trip’s this time around. So, I think this chapter’s a little shaky, but it had to happen before chapter 2.

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Chapter 1

I’ve always associated space travel with freedom. My earliest memories are of my Dad and me lying on our backs in the backyard, staring up at the stars. He’d always listen whenever my childhood imagination painted elaborate fantasies about alien worlds and starships, even while Mom shook her head in the background. My brother had a strong love of those old cowboy movies, and as a kid always tried to work those fantasies into our playtime. But for me, the stars were my prairie and they were surely home to many more riches and adventures than any old bunch of dried up grass could ever offer.

Yet, for all my beliefs, here I sit, in a cold, impersonal white waiting room in Starfleet Headquarters - the very center of Earth’s space program. There’s not one sign of the exploration I signed up to experience. But, then, I guess exploration hasn’t exactly been Starfleet’s highest priority this past year, has it? So maybe the room I’m sitting in is fitting. Alien worlds haven’t exactly been all I thought they’d be, either. Then again, I could be biased.

Vulcan just can’t leave me alone, can it? Damnit. I could really do without that memory. Well, memories. Because between the memory of T’Pol breaking my heart at the lava fields and the memory of T’Pol kneeling in front of Koss in that beautiful purple gown lie sweeter memories - her invite, for example. I never let on, but I knew what a huge step that must have been for her. Hell, she’s a Vulcan. Inviting a stinky human like me home violated too many acts of privacy and decorum to list. I wonder if I ever let her know just how grateful I was for the opportunity to visit her planet.

“You’re sorry. You brought me 16 light years just to watch you get married to someone you barely know."

No, I guess I didn’t. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever correctly demonstrated how much anything she ever did mattered. Maybe it’s why I couldn’t have her in the end. Or maybe it’s why I didn’t deserve to.

But, Koss didn’t, either.

“I’ve been negotiating with Koss’ parents -”

“Negotiating?”

She’s on her honeymoon with the bastard right now, while I’m stuck staring at the same four walls for the past forty minutes. At least, I imagine that was the next step. I left right after the ceremony. T’Les invited me to stay and be a guest in her home. She even assured me that Koss and T’Pol would not be staying with us.

“How long have you been attracted to her?”

What on Earth is taking the Admiral so long? I was here on time, just like he requested. Why can’t he hurry up so we can get this over with, and I can get back to the ship? The Captain can’t object - I took leave time, just like he ordered. Some vacation that turned out to be.

“Trip, I have to do this...for many reasons.”

And now that the lovely vacation is over, I want to get back to the ship. I don’t want to accept Malcolm’s offer to visit ever pub England has, or Travis’ offer to go hiking, or Hoshi’s offer to visit Brazil. All I want to do is get back to the ship and oversee the upgrades, like any good engineer is supposed to do. If the Admiralty had a bit of sense, they’d have understood that, and wouldn’t have me twiddling my thumbs in the waiting room.

Because the engine room has to be safe. God knows, this planet isn’t. Everywhere I look, there’s some reminder of T’Pol - the way the receptionist smiles reminds me of T’Pol’s lips, the woman who sat next to me on the transport had the same hairstyle, and hell, how many salads do they serve in San Francisco? Though the sight of salads being served to practically every single resident of the city wasn’t nearly as bad as the smell of the fresh peaches that reached out and grabbed me when I walked past the cafeteria on my way to the Admiral’s office. It’s funny. I don’t ever remember being served one single damn peach in my entire four years of Starfleet training. But they just had to choose today to change that tradition, didn’t they?

I wonder if I’ll ever be able to eat any of those foods -or pecan pie - ever again without them tasting like cardboard. ‘Course, if this meeting ever actually ends, I might find out.

“Commander Tucker? Admiral Forrest will see you now.”

It’s about time. I’ve only been waiting for an hour.

I walk past the receptionist, taking care not to look at the face that has the T’Pol shaped lips, and hope against all odds that this will be a short conversation.

When I see the Captain sitting next to the Admiral, I realize that today, none of my wishes are going to come true. I’m not going to wake up and realize my trip to Vulcan was a nightmare, and this isn’t going to be a short meeting. Son of a bitch.

“Greetings, Commander. Have a seat.”

It occurs to me as I sit that the chairs in Admiral Forrest’s’ office are awfully cushy. Actually, they feel kind of like the beds in T’Less’ guestroom. Though, that could just be me.

“Captain Archer and I have been reviewing your file. I have to say, Commander, that I’m quite impressed with the command style you have demonstrated over the past three years.”

Command style? “Thank you, Sir.”

“The way you handled the Andorian situation was very impressive, Commander. It showed determination and initiative, both of which are traits that any good Captain needs.”

Captain? “Well, Sir, I’ve learned from the best. The Captain and T’Pol are extraordinary officers.”

The Captain smiles at the compliment, while I take the time to wonder if I’ll ever feel like smiling ever again. It’s hard to imagine that I will, when the very act of saying her name still hurts. “Personally, I’m most impressed by the way he handled the aliens that tried to exterminate Malcolm, Hoshi, and me. Though, I gotta admit to being a little jealous when my chief engineer is more adept at handling a situation while I’m on the bridge.”

And I gotta admit to wondering why the hell this conversation is taking place. I’m really not in the mood for a self congratulatory feel good session.

“That was most impressive, Jon. It certainly demonstrated the diplomacy and ability to solve a situation without resorting to violence.”

Again, I have no idea what the purpose of this conversation is. “Thank you, Sir.”

“It would be a waste of material to keep you on the Enterprise,” Admiral Forrest comments.

Okay. This conversation just turned form puzzling to bad. “I don’t know about that, Admiral. As a matter of fact, Enterprise needs her chief engineer right now more than ever.” Gee, I hope that wasn’t too blunt.

First the Captain was smiling, now he’s chuckling? A small part of me - the part that still remembers being his friend, once upon a time so very long ago - is thrilled to see him so happy. Better for one of us to be than neither , right? “What did I tell you, Admiral? We order him to take a leave, and he still comes back thinking of himself as an engineer. He probably spent the entire time worrying about the engines.”

Not until I left that planet. “Not the entire time, Captain.” But I’d really like to get back to them, if you don’t mind.

“How was the visit to Vulcan, Commander?”

“It went well , Admiral.”

“Did you manage to visit the lava fields? Those have long been my favorite aspect of the planet. Those statues are incredible.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I’m sure Commander T’Pol was a fine tour guide. From what Soval has told me, it’s been sometime since she’s been on Vulcan. It must have been quite the journey of re-discovery on her behalf, as well.”

“There was quite a bit of . . . discovery during the leave, Admiral.” I ignore the look the Captain’s giving me. If I ignore it, it’ll go away, right?

“There’s no question you’re a fine engineer, Commander Tucker. But Starfleet’s in no short supply of brilliant engineers. You can train a good engineer. A man can either command, or he can’t.”

I resist the urge to correct the Admiral about his misconception concerning engineers. All the training in the world won’t make a damn bit of difference if the instinctual skills aren’t there. But Forest was a pilot, so I can’t expect him to understand that. And trying to explain it would only prolong this meeting.

“That’s why it’s Starfleet’s pleasure to offer you a promotion to Captain and command of the Sputnik.”

Oh. A promotion. Well, that makes the rest of this conversation more sensible, I guess. I try to remember how I used to feel about my career, from a time when the news of my own ship would have thrilled me. But I can’t seem to force myself to care. So, instead, I focus on what the Captain is saying.

“Of course, the Sputnik is only capable of Warp 3 - not nearly as impressive as the Enterprise.”

“No, it’s not, Jon. But it’s a fine training ground for a Captain, and by the time the NX-03 is completed, Captain Tucker will be the perfect man to sit in the center chair.”

“Well, Trip? What do you say?”

“I’m not sure what to say, Captain, Admiral. This . . . is very sudden.” And frankly, I’ve had my share of surprises. All I really want to do is get back to the familiar hum of Enterprise’s engines.

Admiral Forrest nods, giving the false impression that he could have any idea what I’m thinking. “You don’t have to decide right away. I’ll need a decision by the end of the week in case we need to start training your replacement on board the Enterprise.”

Six days. That’s how long I have to make a life altering decision. Though, in comparison to the two days that it took to change my life on Vulcan, I guess six days is pretty much an eternity.

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I was barely on board the Enterprise for an hour, when I realized that I am a moron. By what deluded thought process did I ever arrive to the conclusion that being back on board the Enterprise would help? Or that throwing myself into work on the repairs would help me forget what had happened on Vulcan? Sure, initially maintenance helped settle my nerves a little. There’s no cure for any aliment like good old fashioned hard work.

But a mere fifty minutes after I first began to seek solace in the comfort of my engines, I started to fill out my first report. Oh, it’s pretty standard stuff - a standard acquisition approval as part of the inventory. I began to fill it out in the same cheerfully monotonous fashion that kept me in the comfort only denial can bring. It was then, right as I was confirming the order, that I realized just how big of a fool I actually am.

There, in the top left hand corner of the inventory form sit the names of the only two other people who have to approve the shipment before it gets sent onto Starfleet Headquarters, where it no doubt is filed under Things That Simply Don’t Matter.

The top name is the Captain’s. And, if it had been the only one, I wouldn’t still be standing here in my office, staring down at the PADD without the capability to move. Because as dear as he is to me, the Captain’s name simply doesn’t cause any emotional reaction, other than a brief pause to consider how Captain Tucker would look instead.

But it doesn’t stand all by itself. Right under the Captain’s name sits her name. She’s a Commander now, and I vaguely wonder if she had already accepted the promotion by the time she left Vulcan or if she actually took time out of her honeymoon to send a formal acceptance. The latter seems ridiculous, yet he former doesn’t make any sense based on what she told T’Les.

But what do I know? Very little about T’Pol’s customs make sense to my puny little human brain. And all it takes is the mere presence of her name alone to make me revisit every custom that I thought the engines were going to help me forget.

So, I’m sitting here, in my old engineering office, wondering what the hell I’m going to do. If the mere sight of her name does this to me, then how am I supposed to cope when she comes back on board? Both T’Pol and I are professional adults. I’m not worried about that. She’s still the First Officer, I’m still the Chief Engineer. Whatever happened between us - and whatever didn’t - would never affect our work. I’m more worried about the down time when we aren’t working. I’m worried about the nights spent alone in my cabin, the meals I couldn’t ever bear to eat across from her in the Captain’s mess again, and the inability to ever enjoy having another argument with her ever again.

There’s always the Admiral Forrest option. I could leave. A short week ago, I never would have even considered doing anything that would have separated us. But that was before I realized I loved. . . love T’Pol. And much before the woman I love got married.

Married. Which means that whether I stay or go, I have to get over T’Pol. Get over T’Pol. Haven’t I been trying to do that since we first left space dock four years ago? That turned out well, except for the fact that I went in the opposite direction.

So what it ultimately comes down to is whether I want to miss T’Pol from light years away, or if I want to miss her from just down the corridor.

There are other things to consider in my decision, I suppose. If I go, I’d miss my friendships with Malcolm, Phlox, and the Captain. I’d miss Friday night poker with Travis, Rostov, and the rest of the engineering gang. I’d miss Tuesday movie night. I’d miss Wednesday night Euchre with Phlox, Hoshi, and Ensign Sanchez. On the other hand, If I go, it’d be a huge boost to my career. But hell, all the other parts seem to balance each other out.

Commander T’Pol. I’ll see this name every time I file a report. I’ll see her every time an important command decision is made. And along with the familiar feeling of warmth I have every time she walks in the room, I’ll be reminded of everything that happened on Vulcan. I’ll remember why she married Koss, and how noble it was. But I won’t be able to keep from wondering if T’Pol ever really loved me as much as I loved her, or if Koss was simply a convenient way out of a relationship that never would have worked.

Captain Tucker. It has a nice ring to it.

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I’m sorry I have to leave before T’Pol came back. Well, part of me is sorry. But part of me thinks it’s probably for the best. Isn’t a kiss on the cheek and a smile a much better way to part than a few awkward goodbyes? Besides, what's there to discuss? Pretty much everything that needed to be said between us was already said on Vulcan.

The Captain isn’t feeling very awkward. He is grinning from ear to ear as he shakes my hand. “You know I’m going to miss you, Trip. But you’re going to make a hell of a Captain.”

I can manage a small smile in return. “I’ve had a hell of a teacher.”

Poor Malcolm. Without me here, who’s going to continue on the never ending quest to break that stiff upper lip? I give him a nice manly hug that won’t violate any of his Malcolm-established protocols.

“Commander. . . Captain -”

Yeah, it’s new to me, too. “When I get the NX-03, I expect you to come visit, Malcolm. Permanently.”

The Captain makes a protest, but by the smile from Malcolm’s face, I’m guessing I’m going to have a very familiar face standing at the tactical station on my warp five ship.

Ending my hug with Malcolm, I move on to the last of the friends that are gathered outside the landing bay. Again I give Phlox a hug, but this one’s not as stiff as Malcolm’s was. But when I speak to Phlox, I make sure my voice is low enough that neither the Captain nor Malcolm can hear me. “Take care of her, Doc.”

“I will, Captain,” he answers equally softly and with enough emotion that I know he didn’t think I was talking about the ship.

One final glance. Then I turn and walk onto the shuttle that will carry me to my ship. The man at the helm is an overly eager lieutenant who stands immediately when I enter, and looks as though he’s fighting off the urge to do an old fashioned military salute. Good Lord, he’s worse off than Malcolm ever was.

“At ease, Lieutenant, before you sprain something.”

“Aye, Sir.”

“What’s our ETA?”

“Our ETA to the Sputnik is four hours, Captain Tucker.”

Captain Tucker. I like the sound of that.

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Chapter 2: T’Pol’s POV

Vulcans do not experience happiness. At the very least, we do not express the emotion. It, along with all other emotions both positive and negative, is supposed to be suppressed. Yet, I find myself unable to quell the overly pleasant sensation I am currently experiencing as my transport nears the Enterprise. In merely an hour’s time, I will resume my duties as First Officer, and I will be able to put the events that transpired on Vulcan behind me.

I look forward to the opportunity to converse with the crew once again. Even discounting Koss and my mother, the brief interpersonal exchanges with other members of my species have made it abundantly clear to me that I am more at ease in the company of humans than my fellow Vulcans. Not only did the visit to my home world verify this fact, but so too has this transport. I have thus far spent fifteen hours in this shuttle craft with only the Vulcan pilot as company. Though I have books and meditation to occupy my time, I yearn for the comfort conversation brings. I did not always need conversation. But I need it now, for the silence that lingers distracts me and interrupts any effort I might expend on meditation or reading.

The journey to my home world did not lack for conversation, because Trip accompanied me. Those sixteen hours were full of conversation. He was brimming with questions about my home world. Every question, every comment was tinged with the nervous excitement that made his blue eyes shine even more brightly and his pigment a deeper shade of red. I have seen that look before, as it has many catalysts. But most often, I have been the reason for both he sparkle and the blush.

His presence has never failed to be a source of great comfort and pleasure to me, and it shall be doubly so under the circumstances. Even before we had anything that could be defined as even friendship, he was a source of guidance. Though I prefer not to think of that. It summons memories of Koss, and I have been trying very hard to suppress that particular association. It leaves a very bitter mental residue.

Koss. My logic regarding him was sound, that I am certain. If I had denied him in favor of Trip, it would have been a purely emotional reaction. And I would still have been left with regrets. Except in this case, my regrets would have once again been focused on my un-Vulcanlike behavior. Not again. I was the model Vulcan daughter. I placed my wants far below the greater needs of my family line. My mother’s position will soon be restored, and in return I will be forced to spend the foreseeable future bonded to a man for whom I can never truly develop affection. At the very most, I may cease to dislike his very essence.

I was Vulcan. I could not have behaved with greater accordance to our people’s traditions. I can take a small measure of contentment from that, at least.

When I first revealed my intentions to marry Koss, Trip’s reaction had concerned me greatly. It was one seething with frustration, disgust, and outright anger. None of these did I hold against him. How could I? Had I been human, I would have expressed them myself. I certainly . . . experienced them. I had momentarily believed that by marrying Koss, I had lost all hope for a continued relationship with Trip.

But he attended the wedding ceremony.

(“I wouldn’t have missed it.”)

Thus, I am certain that our friendship. . . and the remaining complexities that define our relationship. . . are still intact. This makes me extremely pleased. And truthfully, as the transport continues to near Enterprise, it is my reunion with Trip that I look forward to most. I have grown particularly fond of the scent that I have come to associate with him. I anticipate the ease with which we challenge one another and the certainty that each challenge only strengthens our relationship. I await the sound of my name, tinged with his unique accent, on his lips. Admittedly, I will find immense pleasure in seeing both the sparkle and the blush that is so distinctly Trip. Most of all, . I look forward to the mere comfort his presence brings.

There is still much I require. . . want his friendship for.

(“When this is all over, if you want to talk. . . “)

With everything that has occurred since Trip uttered those words, namely the continued interference of Daniels, we have not yet had the opportunity to have that conversation.

I want to have it. Trip is the only person who will not make judgment against the mistakes I have made. My Vulcan friends and colleagues would sight the lapse in logic with great disdain. My mother would sight it as proof that I should remain on Vulcan. Phlox disapproved on medical grounds. The Captain, if he knew, would object because of the obligation of his position.

Most of all, I want to tell Trip because I want his understanding. I do not fully understand what occurred with the Trellium. I hold no hope that I ever can. I am a Vulcan. My understanding comes through logic, purely and simply. In no way can logic ever account for what has transpired. Trip’s reasoning is tempered by compassion and affection - the affection we share. For this reason, he will understand what I cannot, and know why it has caused me such considerable distress.

Because he is the only human to have ever suggested that I needed to meditate. And because he attended the ceremony.

My. . . desire to share is decidedly un-Vulcan. We are supposed to be a private people. But I have done more than my part over the past two and a half weeks in the name of my heritage. I will indulge myself this momentarily lapse. While I am reveling in my lapse, I will also admit only to my self that I will be very . . happy indeed to see Trip once again.

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He has not come to meet me in the landing bay. Instead I am being greeted by the Captain. I would have preferred to see Trip’s face. However, Commander Tucker is most likely in engineering at the present. He is a very efficient engineer. It is where he belongs, this close to departure. Our reunion can wait.

“Welcome aboard, Commander T’Pol.” The Captain over-emphasizes the “Commander,” and I briefly wonder why. Surely as the Captain he has known about my promotion for some time.

(“I can’t wait to see the look on Soval’s face. . . “)

Yet, for all Trip’s enthusiasm he isn’t here. Perhaps I read his reaction incorrectly? Perhaps. . . NO. Commander Tucker is a loyal and faithful friend.

And he did attend the ceremony.

“I am relieved to be back on board, Captain.”

“Did you have a nice time on Vulcan?”

Nice? There are more adequate adjectives. “It was an intriguing experience, Captain.”

“I’d love to hear about it sometime. Trip said it was quite the journey of discovery.”

Yes, I imagine that would be the way he would describe it, especially in conversation to another. He would have kept what occurred on the planet between us. As there is no reason for what happened on Vulcan to become the Captain’s knowledge, I merely nod in reply to his obvious inquiry.

The Captain seems to not appreciate my lack of disclosure. He doesn’t appear to be disgruntled or angered. But his face contorts in a fashion that may mean he is confused. “Speaking of Trip, I came to meet you because there’s something I have to tell you.”

The pleasurable sensation that I have had since I left Vulcan begins to diminish. The Captain does not sound as though he is bearing good news. “Why did you wish to discuss Commander Tucker? Is there something wrong?”

I should have forced myself to meditate in the transport. My voice betrays me.

The Captain’s expression briefly changes to one of surprise. “No. Nothing’s wrong. Though I have to admit, it doesn’t feel right without Trip here.”

Captain Archer is my friend, but I grow increasingly frustrated at his refusal to disclose what is wrong with Trip. “Why is Commander Tucker not here?”

The Captain smiles, and it eases the tension that I was unknowingly harboring. “Actually, it’s Captain Tucker now. He’s been promoted.”

For a moment, I experience the same sensations that I did when I first realized that I had to marry Koss. It is the experience born from not knowing how to prevent what is clearly inevitable. Regardless of how much I truly want to and irrespective of what I would do to change circumstances, if there remained any possibility to do so. “His promotion. . . has taken him to another ship?” I truly should have meditated.

The Captain persists in smiling. Such an action is as illogical as it is inappropriate. Is he glad that Commander Tucker is not here? I had believed them to be friends. “He’s on the Sputnik now.”

“The Sputnik is only capable of warp three.”

“That’s right.”

“Such a vessel is not worthy of Commander Tucker’s capabilities.”

“Well, I admit that it may appear to a step down from Enterprise, but a promotion to Captain is career advancement. Besides, they’re grooming him to take over when the NX-03 is finished.”

The Captain is correct. Commander. . . Captain Tucker’s decision was quite logical. As the ship’s First Officer, I should behave in a similarly logical fashion. “We have a replacement for the Commander?”

Replacement? Insinuating that there could be such a thing is a worse betrayal than marrying Koss.

(“You brought me 16 light years just to watch you get married to someone you barely know." )

“Lieutenant Commander Thomas Brody comes to us highly recommended from Admiral Forrest.”

“I’m sure he is very. .. efficient, Captain.”

“I’m glad to know you feel that way, T’Pol. I’ll expect to see you tonight at dinner. Tom will be there and I want the two of you to get to know each other.”

“I’ll be there, Captain.” Though I would much rather not.

“Good. Now that that’s out of the way, I have something for you.”

I accept the small box and try not to think of the small painting of Mt. Seleya that remains packed with the rest of my thinks. It had been intended as a present for Trip. I shall never be able to give it to him. Nor shall I be able to explain the dual importance of the term Seleya in my life.

Opening the box, I find a compass. Under any other circumstance, the gift would be a kind one. I do, in fact, appreciate the Captain’s sentiment. I have been experiencing some difficulty in choosing the correct path. Ye, the gift in front of me can only serve as a reminder that I have lost the one thing that I had been growing increasingly certain of.

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My bags are unpacked and my luggage is folded away.

(Eleven hundred hours? I’d better start packing.)

In ten minutes, I will depart my quarters and resume my duties as First Officer and Science Officer. Seven hours from now, I will leave the bridge and make my way to the Captain’s Mess where I will sit across from Captain Tuckers. . . Substitute. We will no doubt exchange pleasantries which neither of us shall actually mean.

(“No kidding, I lived a few blocks from there where I first joined Starfleet. Great parties at the Vulcan compound. “)

At the end of the dinner, I shall return to my quarters where I will meditate in quiet.

(“Doesn’t mean we can’t keep doing the neuropressure though.”)

No. There will be no more neuropressure sessions.

It is difficult to imagine what the future on Enterprise will be like without Trip’s presence. I imagine the correct allegory to be a Vulcan orchestra without a Lyre. It would remain an orchestra, certainly. But the melody would never be as. . . complete.

Trip left no remaining message of goodbye. There is no logical reason for one. We already said our goodbyes on Vulcan. Trip has no idea of the symbolism behind the kiss I gave him. Whereas the Kalifee calls for a challenge, the Nelaya admits defeat.

No goodbye was needed but Captain Tucker rarely uses logic, and never does so in his interpersonal relationships. His decision not to leave a message of any sort was a conscious choice. I have no explanation to explain why, other than I apparently misjudged the intensity of our friendship.

I remember the confidence and . . . contentment I felt in my transport as I walk towards my closet space. Setting the picture of Mt Seleya aside, I remove the oak lid and remember the hesitancy I felt in labeling such an emotion as happiness. I carefully lay the painting on top of the other items that I have. . . an affectionate attachment to - T’Mir’s purse, a faded photograph of my family, a much more recent photograph of the crew, and two dried peach seeds.

Mt Seleya had been the first stop on our tour of Vulcan. He had still be . . . pleased with me at that point in time. We had been three hours away from the lava fields and while I had been trying to find a way to brake the news of my impending nuptials, I had also taken the time to absorb the excitement Trip had expressed over the beauty of the mountain.

(“Vulcans do appreciate beauty.”)

Yes, we do. I am also aware that we are able to appreciate happiness, now that the source of my happiness has left.

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Chapter 3: Borders, Boundaries, and Other Complications

When Trip decided that he would accept the rank of Captain once and for all, he immediately began forming a mental list of the best and worst qualities from previous Commanding Officers over the years. Certain traditions were tossed out immediately, such as Captain Gardner’s daily senior staff meetings. “The Great Circle of Boredom,” in which they had all sat and listened to each other drone on and on served no productive purpose. Trip had no intention of forcing his crew to gather together in such a manner unless the ship was in imminent danger.

Frankly, this being a warp three capable ship only, that’s not likely to happen. The big battles, if they came, would most likely be reserved for Enterprise and Columbia. This suited Trip just fine. He’d had more than his fair share of “imminent danger” with the Xindi Conflict, and eagerly looked forward to getting back to the “seeking out” and “exploring” part of Starfleet’s mission statement.

One of the many traditions that Captain Tucker had planned on keeping was the tradition of dining in the Captain’s Mess with his crew. After all, it was around Enterprise’s Captain’s Table that an admittedly shaky, highly suspicious, and mostly inexperienced command team had grown into three officers who trusted each other implicitly.

It was difficult, at first, to decide which officers to invite. His first officer seemed a natural choice. Commander Gilbert Bryant seemed affable enough. Besides, they definitely need to present a united front to the crew. However, picking the second crewmember was more of a challenge. Trip was reasonably certain that the only reason he’d been invited to Enterprise’s dinners was because once upon a time, he’d been Jonathan Archer’s friend.

There were times that Trip allowed himself to mourn the passing of their friendship. He found, after all, that it was far easier to allow himself regret for having lost a friendship that has brought a decade of companionship than to mourn the loss of a . . . companionship that had been on the verge of blossoming.

Of course, it was easier still to focus on his duties as Captain, until the only remembrance of his time on Enterprise was the dull ache that had nothing to do with Jonathan Archer. Trip had grown rather used to that particular ache, as it had taken up permanent residence inside of him since that horrible day on Vulcan.

Once such task was continuing the tradition he’d come to love so much on Enterprise. It occurred to Trip that he had five department heads in addition to his first officer. Enterprise had had a reason to be picky. He didn’t. Besides, alternating his senior staff would keep him from getting too attached -something he had no intention of doing ever again.

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If humans were in any way predictable, it was that they were passionate. Some were abundantly so, as her Commander Tucker had been.

Commander. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to refer to him as ‘Captain’ with ease. Even as T’Pol wondered she knew the answer was no. She had clung to “Commander” -

(“My friends call me Trip.”)

-Clung to it so stubbornly for so long that it had become a convenient wall to hide behind.

“Cast our fear” Surak had said. Well, she clearly had not done that. She sometimes permitted herself to indulge in the 'what might have been' nature that queried how things would have been different if she had. Those moments were usually in the minutes during which meditation escaped her, because she had been completely distracted by the once very passionate - now very absent - Captain Tucker.

The substitute was not nearly as passionate as Enterprise’s first chief engineer had been. Nor did he possess the same pleasant efficiency as Lt. Reed. Lt. Commander Brody was efficient, but his efficiency was. . . cold. It didn’t make sense for a human to behave in such a manner.

Though I have not been a very good judge of human character of late.

It was possible that her understanding of Brody was an incorrect one. Perhaps, in time, she would be wrong about Brody. Truthfully, her first impression of Commander Tucker had been. . . .disdainful, at best.

But she had known him to be passionate from the start.

As she watched Lt. Commander Brody working on the Captain’s chair -

(“The Cap'n should never feel his chair is a pain in the ass.”)

-from her place at the science station, T’Pol pondered that she had come to appreciate the sight of Commander Tucker’s dark blonde hair and she didn’t enjoy the black locks that covered his substitute’s head. Pushing the thoughts aside, as they were decidedly un-Vulcan, she decided instead to focus on her station.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

On Monday, Trip walked into the Mess Hall quite pleased with the first official act he’d done since becoming captain.

His First Officer, who doubled as his tactical officer, was prompt and the two of them waited together for the Doctor to join them. Trip rather enjoyed Gilbert Bryant’s company. He was an amicable and cheerful enough of a man. Still, Trip couldn’t help but think that a First Officer was supposed to be more. . . dignified. Yet another consequence of having known T’Pol.

“Well, Commander, anything interesting happen in the armory?”

“No, Sir. Everything’s pretty quiet - and ready to go, Captain.”

If he’d been Malcolm, I would have gotten a full report. Of course, Trip didn’t want that. He had enough reports.

And if he’d been T’Pol. . . It was probably best not to think about that.

“I must say, Captain, this is a new experience for me. I’ve never been in one of these, and I always wondered what it would look like in the Captain’s Mess.”

“How do you like it?”

“Oh, it’s pretty impressive. I look forward to having one of my own someday.”

“It’s okay,” Trip admitted, allowing the slightest tingle of regret to lace his voice. “But Enterprise’s Captain’s Mess was more. . . grand.” It’d been larger, for one thing. The only advantage this Captain’s Mess seemed to have was the prerogative of eating alone, if he so chose. Since he didn’t choose to eat alone, there didn’t seem to be any advantages readily forthcoming.

“I bet it was.” Gilbert’s voice was as full of envy as Trip’s had been with regret. “Personally, I’d love to hear more about that ship.”

“I’d be happy to tell you all about it.” Truthfully, there were plenty of happy memories to share.

Trip stuck to the Malcolm stories, because they were safe, and was mid-way through both his meal and a re-telling their experience on Shuttlepod One by the time Dr. Rosenberg decided to show up. “Doctor, I’m glad you could join us. I was beginning to think you had a medical emergency.”

“In space dock?” Gilbert wondered. His amused tone demurred, however, when he caught the irritated look of Captain Tucker.
Alexander Rosenberg had very large green eyes, and very sparse gray eyebrows, both of which were exaggerated when he became upset. “No, there were no medical emergencies, Captain.”

“Then in the future, I would appreciate it if you would be on time.”

“Yes, well, I don’t know how you did things on Enterprise, Captain, but I have no assistants in my sickbay. And there are several tasks which require my attention before we leave space dock.”

It had been said, more than once, that Trip had a fierce temper. But to his credit, he was trying to be diplomatic. He might have inherited this crew, but there wasn’t any reason they couldn’t get alone as though he had handpicked them. “I’m sure you’re quite busy, Doctor. But these dinners are very important.”

Those tiny little eyebrows squeezed together in yet another sign of agitation, and Trip found himself wiggling his bottom against the chair and biting his lip.

“I do find it curious that you think these dinners to be so. . . important, Captain.”

“I know from experience that they help promote a positive command team.”

Rosenberg sniffled derisively, but said nothing. Trip looked expectantly at his first officer, and got only a feeling of exasperation as Commander Bryant sipped his ice tea quietly. Resisting the urge to kick one or both of his officers, he briefly wondered if the crew of this ship didn’t a deserve to be subjected to The Great Circle of Boredom.

Missing Phlox, Trip tried again. “How are things in sickbay?”

“Dreadful. Apparently, they expect either that I have the ability to grown several extra sets of hands in a crisis, or that there will never BE a medical emergency.”

“On Enterprise, Phlox had to use several of the biological scientists to help out,” Trip winced inwardly as he remembered the sweet relationship that had almost bloomed between Phlox and Liz Cutler. “I’ll speak to Lt. Price about stealing a couple from her department.”

“Dr. Phlox. . . . I remember reading about him. He’s an alien, isn’t he?”

“He’s Denobulan,” Trip answered, wondering what the hell that had to do with any thing.

Dr. Rosenberg gave a look of disdain, which Trip supposed wasn’t directed at the baked potato in front of him. “How was that? It couldn’t have been comfortable to have someone like that as your doctor.”

“Someone like that?” Trip’s slight confusion had rapidly disappeared and had been replaced with something far past disapproval.

“Yes. An alien.”

His suspicions confirmed, Trip saw no reason to withhold his temper any longer. This wasn‘t a diplomatic situation, after all. “Phlox was a damn fine doctor - the best. As a doctor on a Starfleet vessel, you’re going to be expected to treat many alien life forms during your tenure. I will not have bigotry on my ship, especially not from my ship’s physician. Is that clear, Doctor?”

At Trip’s tone, Rosenberg perhaps began to regret the foolishness he had shown since their meal had begun. “I didn’t mean -”

“Is that CLEAR, Doctor?”

Rosenberg stiffened, then nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

The rest of the meal was eaten in less than companionable silence. Steak and potatoes disappeared from plates in record time, and the doctor claimed he had an emergency, thereby skipping dessert.

Gilbert stayed, however, and mid-way through his blueberry pie, Trip commented, “You know, Malcolm had told me that he’d encountered some pretty racist people on Earth, but I never dreamed I’d ever see it on a Starfleet ship.”

“Kind of makes you wonder why he’s in Starfleet,” Gilbert agreed.

“Yeah, it does.” The enthusiasm Trip had possessed at the beginning of the meal had dissipated considerably.

“So, Captain. . . what exactly happened after Lieutenant Reed aimed his phaser at you?”

The question did allow a tiny, tiny shadow of a smile to peek through the dull ache. But he forced himself to remain stone-faced as he remarked, “Before I tell you that, Commander, let me just remind you exactly what will happen if you ever pull a stunt like that.. . . “

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

One dinner date later, T’Pol still did not like Commander Brody. However, she disliked Dr. Soong a good deal more.

“You know, Commander, I’m very disappointed. I’d so hoped to meet Commander Tucker.”

“He’s a Captain now,” T’Pol stated, in a voice that would have been quite level, if T’Pol had been human.

“Really? I hadn’t heard that piece of news.”

“I imagine being in prison precludes you from receiving a good deal of news.”

“Not at all, Commander. I’m curious, however, to know how Captain Tucker could leave the ship if the reports about the two of you that I received were true.”

“That’s Enough!”

T’Pol thanked Captain Archer silently, and disliked Soong all the more for having voiced the question she had been wondering since she had arrived back on board Enterprise.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

“So, Captain, do you think this dinner’s going to go better than the last three have gone?”

It took all of Trip’s captainly resolve not to groan. He did, however, roll his eyes. “It can’t go much worse, can it?”

In fact, Trip’s dearly beloved tradition had failed rather miserably not once, but three times. Following the disaster of a dinner with the Doctor, his communications officer has sat so quietly and stiffly that Trip had to ask her what was wrong even before the food had arrived. Ensign Yamamoto had been very nice, and very professional. She also definitely had “Malcolm” issues - namely a strong aversion to eating with THE CAPTAIN. The Memories of Malcolm’s recitation of “the breakfast” rung loudly in Trip’s ears as he’d dismissed the uncomfortable lieutenant. As for dinner with his science officer? It had passed not only without incident, but without conversation, not because the ensign had been nervous, or uncomfortable, but apparently just because Lieutenant Price wasn’t an extravert.

“I suppose,” Trip admitted, “that I am going to have far less communal dinners than I had anticipated.”

Gilbert smiled the carefree smile of someone whose only command experience had been restricted to simulations and planet side operations. “Just think, for every unsuccessful dinner, you get another night all to yourself - free to sit around in your undies watching your favorite sport. What might that be, anyway?”

Very calmly, Trip replied as seriously as possible, “Water polo.”

Saying the Gilbert looked horrified would definitely be an understatement. “Oh.”

Equally calmly, Trip continued his wicked streak. “Hey, I guess all those fee nights won’t be wasted, after all. What could be better than my first officer and I and a fun-filled night of water polo?”

For a moment, the poor Commander struggled between loyalty to his Captain and loyalty to the truth. The former finally won out. “That sounds great, Captain.”

It was the heartbroken expression that accompanied Gilbert’s devotion that made Trip crack. “I’m only kidding, Gilbert.”

The reply was equally respectful, but rapid. “Thank God.”

Their food arrived at precisely the same time the pilot did. “I apologize for being late, Captain,” Liam Doyle apologized briskly.

“You’re not late at all, lieutenant,” Trip responded. And, comparative to the Doctor, the pilot wasn’t late.

Trip glanced at the “meatloaf surprise” on his plate and wondered briefly if that was an omen of the discussion to follow. He also reminded himself quite disgustedly that Captain Archer had never been served a platter of gray meat.

“Lieutenant, I understand you served under Captain Hernandez,” Trip commented by way of postponing consumption of said meat.

“Yes, Sir,” Doyle responded stiffly. Trip told himself to ignore the stiffness - it wasn’t insubordination, he argued with himself. After all, Malcolm was stiff - he had been once, at any rate - and so was Ensign Yamamoto. Hell, T’Pol was the very definition of “stuffy,” and she was the finest officer he’d ever known.

So, he continued unabated. “I understand that Captain Hernandez was promoted to the NX-02. I’ve never had the pleasure of working with her, but she must have been quite a Captain to receive that honor.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Yep. Meatloaf surprise was definitely an omen. Still, this would be the fourth consecutive failed attempt at dining with his crew. So, using the patience that he planned on demonstrating during his captaincy, Trip tried once again. “You don’t sound overly enthused, Lieutenant.”

Doyle’s mouth puckered as though he had tasted something disagreeable, though the meatloaf remained untouched on his plate. “Captain Hernandez was an excellent Captain, and was certainly worthy of the NX-02.”

“I’ve heard pretty good things about her myself. She and Captain Archer used to serve together.”

The silence that ensued made Trip reach resolutely for a piece of his meatloaf surprise. He was relatively certain that this was going to be the fourth consecutive dining failure. Thus, he was quite happy when Doyle spoke again, completely unprompted.

“I have heard, Captain, that Starfleet is prepared to offer you the NX-03.”

“That’s their plan.”

“Based, I presume, on your experience on Enterprise?”

“Actually, Lieutenant, I believe that my actions as Captain of Sputnik will determine whether or not I take command of the NX-03, though I’m sure my record on Enterprise will come into play.”

“Of course. Starfleet is very fond of Enterprise.”

Trip’s patience ended. He may not have been Captain of Enterprise, but he had been chief engineer, and that position came with a pride all its own. “Do you have something against Enterprise, Lieutenant?”

Doyle promptly sat up in attention. “No, Sir.”

“You need to know that I won’t stand for bullshit, Lieutenant. Not on my ship, and not from my crew. Please speak freely, and never lie to my face again.”

Trip’s speech seemed to throw the young lieutenant off, but apparently Trip’s tone was enough to make Doyle listen. “I. . . I simply meant, Captain, that at times Starfleet seems to believe that Enterprise is the only ship in the fleet. Particularly concerning the Xindi Conflict, Captain.”

“Are you aware of the circumstances of that mission, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, Sir. I’m also aware, Sir, that during the year Enterprise was out of range, the rest of us were doing everything in our power to defend the planet too, Captain.”

“If you’re aware of circumstances of the mission, Lieutenant, then you should realize that not one person aboard the ship gave a damn about prestige, career advancement, or anything else other than saving our planet. To suggest anything else is an insult to the eighteen crewmembers whose careers ended out there in the Expanse.”

“Yes, Captain. I didn’t mean -”

“But I am sure you did everything you could, as well, Lieutenant. I’m not in the habit of forcing my officers to dine with me. If you’d like to eat elsewhere, you’re dismissed.”

Not surprisingly, Doyle took the invitation, and left his untouched plate behind. After he’d gone, Trip turned slowly to Gilbert, who had been sitting quietly since the lieutenant had entered. “How many of the crew feel this way?”

Gilbert looked as though he didn’t want to reply. Perhaps remembering Trip’s “no bullshit” lecture, however, he answered anyway. “I’m not sure, Captain. A few. . . No more than a handful.”

“But Doyle’s not alone in his view.” Trip’s voice had taken on a soft, slightly melancholy tone that heretofore had only been known by Jonathan Archer and T’Pol.

“No, Sir, he’s not,” Gilbert admitted uncomfortably before adding hurriedly, “But, Captain, most of us, including myself, are proud - and grateful - of everything Enterprise did in the Expanse.”

“I appreciate that, Commander.”

The rest of the meal passed in silence.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

Having no knowledge of how evening meals were progressing on Sputnik, Jonathan Archer was pretty certain that the meals on his ship were a disaster. Comparatively, of course, he had only had two with both his new chief engineer and T’Pol. But both occasions had been boring, quiet affairs. The T’Pol that had first come aboard Enterprise four years ago would have loved the dinners, though the silence that stretched across the table made him nostalgic for the worst of the Trip and T’Pol arguments that were now a permanent part of the past.

Oh, they were both professional enough. Archer would go so far as to say that they were cordial to one another. But the friendship and camaraderie that had always been a foundation of the worst bickering was lacking.

“Please pass me the salt, Commander.”

As T’Pol passed the salt silently to Brody, Archer had an odd flashback of T’Pol’s Carbon Creek story. It was, of course, ridiculous, but it was just the sort of ridiculousness that he was certain would never find its way to this table again.

I don’t have time for ridiculousness, he scolded himself gently. Perhaps later, after the Augments and Soong had been dealt with, he’d have a chat with T’Pol. Come to think of it, she had been acting. . . a bit off. Then again, time in an Orion prison will do that to you, Archer mused.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

---------

Chapter 4: Valis 2

“My mother, her mother, and her mother’s mother were all engineers. It was always expected, to a degree, that I would follow them.”

Though the response had been an answer to Trip’s question, he remained silent while Gilbert began to enthusiastically take over the conversation with Lieutenant Ortiz. “What about the men in your family? What do they do?”

Ana’s laugh took Trip by surprise, as it was the first non-Gilbert laugh that had graced the walls of Sputnik’s Captain’s Mess. It wasn’t hard to see the effect it was having on Gilbert. Trip wondered, not for the first time, if his attraction to T’Pol had been as obvious when they had first met.

(“I took a shower this morning. How 'bout you, Cap'n?”)

No, apparently not.

(“How long have you been attracted to her?”)

Trip forced the memory - and all associated memories of Vulcan - out of his mind, and tried to focus on what his engineer was saying.

“Everyone always asks that. I wonder sometimes if they would do the same if the men were the ones who had been the engineers.”

Trip briefly let go of his angst long enough to smirk at Gilbert’s obvious discomfort from behind his ice tea.

“I didn’t mean -”

Ana waved her hand dismissively. “It’s perfectly fine, Commander. I’m quite used to it, even if I question whether or not most of the human population have actually heard of the last two women’s liberation movements.” Ana smiled briefly before adding, “Sirs.”

Gilbert looked lost for a moment. Finally, he sighed and looked towards the captain for much needed support. The gesture was so very familiar to Trip - he himself had cast a similar look to Archer more than once - that it felt very much as though Gilbert had reached into his chest and twisted Trip’s heart with his very hands.

“Actually, my father was a painter. My brother writes poems. My grandfather on Dad’s side was a chef, and on Mom’s side, a teacher. I’m not sure what either of my great-grandfathers did for a living, but one of them did try a stint in the US Navy.”

“Try?” Trip questioned.

“Well. . . “ Ana simultaneously blushed and grinned, showing that she enjoyed this particular story, regardless of how much she probably shouldn’t’. “Apparently, great-grandfather Carter wasn’t navy material, after all.”

Trip sensed there was more to the story, but decided that the sharing would probably have to be on her terms.

(“Certain information is considered . . .intimate.”)

Oh, hell. Time to change the conversation. Or, rather, steer it back on course. “You said becoming an engineer was expected. Did you ever want to do anything else?”

“I’ve always loved the water,” Ana admitted. As the confession came forth, the lieutenant bit down on her bottom lip, as if attempting to forestall the information coming forth. “I wanted to join the navy for a long time - until it was disbanded.”

“The Royal Navy is still in tact,” Gilbert remarked.

“Yes, Commander, and that’s great. Except for the fact that I’m not English, Sir.”

“You could have specialized in any of the marine sciences,” Trip suggested.

Gilbert nodded earnestly. “Most of our science staff chooses to specialize in astrophysics.”

“That’s probably because they’re in space, Commander. Anyway, your suggestion is great, Captain, except for the whole unbearable ness that comes with being the one to let down three generations. What about you, Sir? Did you always want to be an engineer?”

Trip shook his head, marveling at the bittersweetness of family memories now that Lizzy was gone. “Nah. Always enjoyed taking things apart, though. And my mother wanted me to be an architect.”

“With all due respect, Sir, I can’t imagine you doing anything but being an engineer. Your achievements are already fodder for legend, Captain.”

Given the previous opinions of his crew members, the praise did feel good. “I’ve only done what was necessary to keep the ship together, Lieutenant. It’s a feeling you’ll probably come to know well.”

Ana nodded her head in understanding but was interrupted from saying anything further when the comm signaled.

“Engineering to Lieutenant Ortiz.”

“Go ahead, Nielsen.”

“Lieutenant, there appears to be some flux in the impulse engines.”

“I’m on my way.”

Ana cast a glance at Trip, who waved toward the door. “Go.”

Trip watched Gilbert watch Ana leave. He wondered if Archer had ever observed similar looks in his Mess Hall. Trip supposed that if the Captain had ever been paying attention at all, he would have noticed. Because Trip definitely remembered giving that look.

“I think that went well, Captain,” Gilbert remarked, cheerfully. “I mean, I think maybe she hates me. But it was still the best dinner we’ve had.”

“I don’t think she hates you, Commander.”

Gilbert shrugged. “If you say so, Captain.”

If it hadn’t been for the ever-present dull ache, Trip might have smiled at the man’s skepticism. But wishes weren’t horses today, so instead, Trip simply changed the subject. “Is everything in the armor y ready to go for tomorrow, Gilbert?”

“Yep. Phase canons are a go; Torpedoes are ready; Crew is anxious.”

“I bet they are. It’ll feel a bit odd, leaving space deck without any MACOs on board.” Or Archer. . . Or T’Pol. . . Or Malcolm. . .

Gilbert gave an uncharacteristic shudder. “With all due respect, Captain, I’m glad we won’t have any MACOs on board. I mean, the army officer in me is excited about the possibility, but the first officer in me can’t see how such a military-ran organization could ever. . . be part of the team.”

“You and Malcolm would get alone wonderfully. He hated the MACOs too.”

Gilbert looked chagrined for a minute. “I know the MAACOS were necessary on Enterprise, Captain. But surely you don’t think they’ll be needed on our mission, do you?”

“Na. We’re a research vessel - we’re supposed to ‘seek out and explore’, remember?”

“As much as the armory stereotype might say otherwise, I hope that’s all we ever do, officially.” Gilbert raised his nearly empty glass. “Here’s to seeking.”

Trip returned the gesture. “Here’s to exploring.”

Sputnik’s first officer and captain finished their meal in companionable small talk. Long after Gilbert had gone and the dishes had been cleared, Trip remained seated. He couldn’t help but wonder why, when dinner had gone so well, he didn’t feel any different than he had at any of the previous dinners. There had been conversation and laughs - by Gilbert and Ana, anyway - and an utter lack of tension. Yet. . . The aftermath was the same as it had been the previous six times. Ultimately, Trip shrugged and forced the problem to the back of his mind. He had a ship to deal with, and a mission to prepare for. With that in mind, Trip left the Mess Hall. On his way back to his quarters, Trip took the long route - the scenic route- and tried to focus on the beauty of his ship, the hum of his engines, and the smell of a new, yet to be broken ship. He also tried quite hard to focus on how happy he was to be beginning his mission. And, for the most part, he was successful.

-----------------

Valis Two seemed to glow from orbit. Trip was quite aware that this was entirely his imagination, fueled by the desire to explore.

It was this desire that allowed Trip to easily ignore Lt. Doyle’s suggestion that a landing party should clear the area before the Captain subjected himself to the possibly hostile conditions of the planet. Of all the Commanding Officers Trip had served under, he couldn’t imagine any of them sending their crewmembers to a surface or situation they weren’t willing to experience firsthand. The notion was ridiculous, and so cautionary that it seemed incompatible with Starfleet’s mission as a whole.

Thus, Trip, along with Commander Byrant, Lieutenant Price, Ensign Yamamoto, and a handful of the science staff took two of Sputnik’s shuttles down the planet surface. Trip was immediately quite glad he had disregarded Doyle’s suggestion, as Valis Two was stunningly beautiful. The horizon contained magnificent mountains, which appeared to flow effortlessly into the lush valley where the Valisians lived. The bountiful plant life thrilled the botanists, and the advanced culture delighted the engineer that still resided in Captain Tucker.

The Captain in Trip was relieved to find that his first contact in that capacity was going incredibly smoothly. Valis Two was home to a very kind, very accepting advanced culture, apparently.

Thus, although Trip’s travels had caused him to always mar his optimistism with caution, he allowed his team some degree of roaming, with standard check in procedures. He himself ended up at what appeared to be the Valisian transportation headquarters. Like all the other technological achievements on Valis Two, the structures involved were grand and imposing, yet seemed less so as the Valisian at his side quietly explained its purpose.

“It can take you to brand new worlds, as well as worlds you are already acquainted with. There is no alien world beyond your grasp, Captain Tucker.”

A particularly bitter memory swept through Trip, but he ignored it. “So, you’re saying it could take me to Earth in less time than our ship? How would I get back?”

“You could always come back whenever you are ready, Captain Tucker.” The Valisian stopped and suddenly looked very solemn. “You are not a very happy man.”

The statement startled Trip. “Sure I am. Your world is incredible, Chancellor Lorne.”

“It is not Earth you long for,” the Valisian insisted.

“No, Earth is my home world. We’re explorers,” Trip reminded him.

“To seek out and explore?” The Chancellor questioned softly.

“Yes - wait, how did you know that?” It hadn’t come up before. As much as Trip believed those original words, spoken so long ago, it seemed slightly pompous to call another culture’s home world ‘strange’ and ‘new.’

“You are seeking in the wrong place, Captain.” Before Trip had a chance to respond, the Chancellor pressed a button on the panel at his right.

The word “wait” was still formulating on Trip’s tongue when the light flashed. It was, as all sudden flashes are supposed to be, momentarily blinding. Trip had to blink several times in rapid succession to clear his vision. And even then, the sight that greeted him made him question whether he had been successful. Because, there, not three feet away, stood T’Pol.

--------------------------

Chapter 5

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