by Star Trek
When they were still perhaps fifty or so paces away from the hut, a door slid open in the structure’s side, and a trio of dour-looking, paramilitary-clad figures stepped out into the white afternoon sun.
Romulans, Trip guessed, judging by their distinctly Vulcanoid appearance. They were all males, and he could see at once that at least two of them were armed with heavy pistols of some sort. Whether these weapons turned out to fire directed energy beams or ballistic metal pellets, he had no choice other than to assume that they were lethal. Following Phuong’s lead, Trip stopped in his tracks and raised his arms high over his head, keeping his hands open to demonstrate that he posed no threat.
As one of the trio of Romulans—the one that wasn’t carrying any visible weaponry—stepped ahead of the other two, Trip thought, Let’s hope we get our money’s worth out of these Adigeon translation devices.
“Jolan’tru, Ch’uihv of Saith,” Phuong said. “I am Terha of Talvath, from the Devoras cell.” Thanks to their implanted translators, both Phuong and Trip could converse fluently in the language they now knew was called Rihannsu.
When Trip got a close look at the face of the man whom Phuong had addressed as Ch’uihv, he experienced a sharp, undeniable sensation of déjà vu. All at once he was convinced that he had seen this man before, although the precise context of that previous encounter eluded him.
After taking a lengthy beat to look both Phuong and Trip up and down, Ch’uihv finally turned to Phuong and said, “Your reputation precedes you, Terha. Jolan’tru.” He made a polite half-bow in Phuong’s direction, and Phuong casually copied the gesture as though it was something he had done all his life.
Realizing not only that their translators were working as promised, but also that their surgical alterations had at least passed visual muster, Trip forced himself not to heave an audible sigh of relief. But he almost took an involuntary step backward when Ch’uihv abruptly turned to face Trip.
“And you, Cunaehr—I truly never expected to see you again, especially after that accident on Unroth III.”
Once again, Trip was rattled by that same feeling of déjà vu. Even the man’s voice sounded familiar.
He suddenly realized why, and that abrupt awareness very nearly caused him to lose his composure. But he really thinks I’m Ehrehin’s assistant, Cunaehr, Trip thought, his mind racing. So he hasn’t seen through my disguise the way I’ve seen through his . At least, not yet.
Trip was determined to cling to that slender advantage for as long as he possibly could. “It was a very near thing,” he said finally, trusting his Adigeon-altered vocal cords, as well as his translator, to complete the illusion that he was, indeed, Cunaehr. “I look forward to seeing Doctor Ehrehin again.”
The man named Ch’uihv broke out into a smile, an occurrence that Trip gathered was probably rare. And seeing a smile on such a Vulcan-like face struck Trip as extremely odd. “And I am sure that Doctor Ehrehin will be delighted to see you. It’s extremely fortunate for us that you are here, in fact; your presence may make him easier to handle. Please, come inside with us.”
The stolid presence of the armed men by the door made it crystal clear to Trip that Ch’uihv wasn’t making a request.
“Lead the way,” said Phuong, his voice betraying no fear.
Instead of taking them straight to Doctor Ehrehin, as Trip had hoped, Ch’uihv and his men led them into a comfortably appointed sitting room or waiting room, where yet another Romulan—a youngish-looking female this time, also clad in paramilitary garb, and looking every bit as dangerous as any of the men—brought them refreshments before leaving them alone together in the room.
Trip and Phuong sat at a small, round table, both of them eyeing the tray of exotic-looking fruits, meats, and breads that the woman had left for them.
Phuong immediately grabbed a plate and some silverware. He heaped some food on a plate and started to eat.
“Hey!” Trip said. “You sure that’s safe?”
Phuong paused for a moment, then spoke around a mouthful of food. “You think they’d bother poisoning us? If they really wanted us dead, I think they’d just shoot us.”
Trip had to admit that Phuong had a point. Besides, he couldn’t deny the insistent growling of his own stomach, and he quickly began digging into the food before him with gusto, though he studied the tall, clear carafe that accompanied it with some suspicion. It contained an intensely blue liquid that reminded him uncomfortably of something called a Blue Hawaii, an alcoholic beverage with which he’d once had an unfortunate experience back on Earth many years ago.
Phuong noticed Trip’s discomfiture immediately. “It’s called Romulan ale. It’s got quite a kick, but I can guarantee that it’s nonlethal.”
Trip shrugged, then began filling a pair of squared-off drinking glasses with the sapphire-hued fluid. “If you say so.” He handed one of the glasses to Phuong, then took a single cautious sip of his own before deciding that he liked a smooth Kentucky bourbon a lot better.
“Something’s bothering you,” Phuong said, setting his cutlery down momentarily.
Trip nodded. “I’m not sure it’s safe to talk about it here, though.”
“The electronics woven into our clothing would have let us know if there were any bugging devices trained on us now. Go ahead and speak freely.”
Trip looked furtively about the room for a moment, as though he expected to see a hidden microphone embedded in a wall, or a chair, or perhaps even in the food. Feeling foolish, he forced himself to focus all his attention back upon Phuong.
“It’s about our host,” Trip said quietly. “This Ch’uihv character. He’s not who he seems to be.”
Phuong chuckled and appeared almost to aspirate a swallow of his Romulan ale. “In case you haven’t noticed, neither are we.”
Trip felt his irritation beginning to rise. “From the moment I first laid eyes on him, I knew I’d met him before. It was over three years ago, during one of the civil conflicts on Coridan Prime. His name was Sopek back then, and he was the captain of a Vulcan military ship.”
Phuong blanched. “You’re saying you think he’s some sort of Vulcan-Romulan double agent?”
“Looks that way to me. Anyhow, I don’t trust him. There’s no knowing whose side he’s really on.”
“There’s no way to really know that about anybody, especially in this business,” Phuong said. “The question is, what does he know about you?”
Trip shrugged again. “As far as I can tell so far, only what we want him to know.”
Phuong drained his Romulan ale in a single quaff, making Trip wince involuntarily in sympathy. “Regardless of the espionage activities of Ch’uihv—or Sopek—we don’t really have a good alternative to trusting him. He’s still our only link to Doctor Ehrehin. We’ll just have to treat Ch’uihv with a great deal of caution.”
Trip shook his head resignedly. “Caution. Good idea. Now, why didn’t I think of that?”
Now it was Phuong’s turn to sound irritated. “Look, Ch’uihv represents a breakaway Romulan faction that wants to assist Doctor Ehrehin in defecting to Vulcan before the Romulan military can catch up to him.”
“We hope,” Trip said. “Ch’uihv’s people could just as easily be planning to use Ehrehin’s technology for their own purposes—which could pose just as big a danger to Earth as the Romulan military does.”
Phuong set his empty glass down on the tabletop with a loud clatter. “We have to take Ch’uihv at face value. Because if he isn’t for real, then we’re probably both dead already—along with all the worlds of the Coalition, which will fall one by one to Romulan fleets powered by Ehrehin’s new stardrive.
“But only if we fail.”
Or if we’re just plain wrong, Trip thought, then drained his own glass, stoically ignoring the blazing sensation as the bright blue stuff burned its way down his gullet like the sea floor sinking into a fiery subduction zone.
Though he didn’t like it, Trip knew that Phuong was right. Rega
rdless of whether or not Ch’uihv—or Sopek—proved trustworthy, there really was no choice at all other than to trust him. But that didn’t mean that they had to trust him blindly.
Remembering that, Trip thought, just might give us the upper hand.
Twenty-Five
Thursday, February 20, 2155
Enterprise NX-01
AS THE SLEEK TORPEDO CASING was launched into space, the majority of Enterprise’s crew who had assembled in Shuttlepod One’s launch bay stood silent, while some wept or sniffled. At the forefront of the crowd, near Captain Archer and the other command staff, T’Pol neither cried nor sniffled, nor even felt the strong need to suppress the emotions that were no longer battling within her.
The feelings that had so wracked her mental disciplines when she had been in Trip’s quarters had given way to an almost preternatural calm. She had wondered at first if she were in shock, but earlier in Trip’s memorial service, when she had touched the smooth surface of his metal coffin, another thought had sprung into her mind.
For some reason she couldn’t properly identify, touching the torpedo casing had given T’Pol a gnawing disquiet, a suspicion that something was not right. But the precise nature of that something, however, remained frustratingly obscure to her.
Now, as Trip’s casket drifted away into trackless space, T’Pol wondered idly if the decision to jettison his remains here, so far from his native Earth, was really what Trip would have wanted. But when she had brought this objection to the attention of Captain Archer and Lieutenant Reed, they had both assured her that the action had been taken to honor one of Trip’s final requests. Apparently he had indicated in his will that he’d wanted to be interred in deep space, among the stars, should he happen to die in the line of duty.
Oddly, not only was Archer adamant about following Trip’s wishes, he also seemed particularly intent on carrying out the memorial ceremony and services quickly, weeks before Enterprise was due to return to Earth. It seemed to T’Pol that the logical course of action would have been to wait until Trip’s remains could be taken to Earth, so that his family, friends, and colleagues could commemorate him, and then launch Trip into space afterward. But the captain had disagreed.
T’Pol looked to the side of the launch bay, where she noticed Doctor Phlox studying her intently. She stared back at him, and they locked eyes for a moment before the Denobulan physician turned away.
For some reason she could not identify, the doctor’s inquisitive stare made her apprehensive. She decided then and there that the best way to pursue these accumulated oddities might be to question the chief medical officer directly.
How much has she figured out? Phlox thought, more than a little concerned.
“Thank you for coming to see me, T’Pol,” he said, doing his best to sound casual as he gestured toward one of the sickbay’s biobeds. “I was going to request that you pay me a visit anyway, so I’m pleased that you’ve saved me the trouble.”
T’Pol leaned against the bed, keeping her hands at her sides. “Why did you wish to see me, Doctor?” she asked, one eyebrow slightly raised. She seemed to be making no effort to conceal her curiosity. “Might it be related to the reason you were staring at me during Commander Tucker’s memorial service?”
Phlox could have kicked himself now for having stared. He had clearly further roused suspicions that she had developed when she’d gotten close to the torpedo casing.
The casket that most definitely did not contain the remains of Commander Tucker.
He chuckled, temporizing as he decided on the best way to allay T’Pol’s suspicions. “In addition to my role as a general physician, I often function as a mental health practitioner, in lieu of any other officer aboard this ship acting in that capacity—other than Chef, I suppose.” He spread his hands and smiled widely. “I don’t know if that’s because of my bedside manner, or because doctors are bound by their medical ethics to hold anything their patients tell them in strictest confidence, as long as it doesn’t endanger the ship.”
He paused, letting his words hang in the air for a moment, but T’Pol merely stared at him curiously, making no immediate effort to step into the conversational breach. After thirty seconds or so, she finally opened her mouth as if to speak, closed it again, then spoke at last.
“Are you saying that you believe that there is something confidential that I wish to share with you?”
Phlox tilted his head, returning her curious stare with one of his own. “I didn’t say that, Commander, but if you were burdened with such a secret, I’d be more than willing to hear it—and I’d be obliged to be discreet about it.” He folded his hands in front of his stomach, waiting. Beyond his genuine concern, he also hoped to gauge exactly how much T’Pol might really suspect about the truth behind Trip’s “death.”
T’Pol dipped her head, then spoke again in a much quieter voice than usual. “I have had difficulty controlling my emotions ever since Trip’s death.” She began twisting her hands together, evidently unconsciously. “I had a very difficult…breakdown of my emotional barriers last week, while I was packing up Trip’s personal effects.”
“That isn’t surprising,” Phlox said gently. “Losing a compatriot is difficult enough, and losing a…lover is wrenching, to say the very least. But when one factors in the extraordinary emotional strain you’ve been under lately, on Vulcan, and on Mars, this…event might be—as the humans put it—the proverbial ‘straw that broke the camel’s back.”’
She stiffened, as though offended. “I am a Vulcan.”
“T’Pol,” he continued, “Vulcans are most certainly not devoid of emotions, however adept you have become in the practice of suppressing them. Vulcans experience feelings as full and rich as those of any species. But suppressing emotions tends to put them under pressure. And when something is under too much pressure for too long, it can erupt unexpectedly, sometimes with rather alarming results.”
He turned and grabbed one of his handheld medical scanners, then approached T’Pol more closely. “Lift your head, please.” He began scanning her, holding the glowing, whirring device next to her temple. “Were there any physical side effects to your…breakdown? Other than your eyes, I mean.” He had noticed that her nictitating inner eyelid had suffered multiple broken blood vessels, which gave their normally clear membranes a slightly lime-colored tint.
“Ironically, I have been having difficulty getting to sleep,” T’Pol said.
Phlox understood that she was referring to more than a year earlier, when Trip had been unable to sleep after his sister had died in the Xindi attack on Earth. Phlox had referred Trip to T’Pol for Vulcan neuropressure; since that time, the two had become increasingly—if sometimes combatively—involved with one another romantically.
“I can prescribe a mild sedative for you,” he said, sidestepping the neuropressure issue. He backed away slightly to study the readings on his scanner, then set it down on a countertop and turned back to her.
“Beyond recent events in your life, I can think of another possible causal factor for your recent…emotional lapse,” he said. “The aftereffects of the trellium.” While Enterprise was searching for the Xindi in the hazardous unknown region known as the Delphic Expanse, T’Pol had become addicted to a mineral known as trellium, a substance that had enabled her to escape the restraints of logic, at least temporarily. Phlox had helped T’Pol end her addiction, but the physical repercussions of her chemical dependency were still measurable.
“I have been able to control my emotions since that time,” T’Pol said, a hint of defensiveness in her voice. “Until now.”
Phlox nodded. “Have you? Or were you struggling to control them on a deeper level?” He approached her again, staring into her eyes. “I’ve seen you fighting your emotions, T’Pol. More and more. Understand that I don’t consider emotions to be a negative thing. Denobulans revel in them, as do humans. So I cannot compare my situation to yours. But if you are susceptible to emotional outbursts due to a residua
l chemical imbalance in your body, it may be more harmful to you not to give in to your emotions, at least from time to time.”
T’Pol nodded, but Phlox could see that she had discarded his advice the instant he had voiced it. He stepped away and pretended to tidy up his counter.
“There is something else,” T’Pol said, her voice clearer. “Something that I do not believe can be blamed on the trellium, or on my present lack of emotional restraint.”
Phlox stiffened slightly. This is where she tells me her suspicions, he thought. He turned back toward her.
T’Pol crossed her arms across her chest and shifted her weight from foot to foot. Despite these telltale signs of nervousness, her face remained an all but inscrutable mask.
“I believe that Commander Tucker is still alive.”
Phlox carefully masked his own responsive body language, glad that the first officer was only a touch telepath and couldn’t read his thoughts just now.
“That’s an interesting notion,” he said at length.
“I know that it’s a logical impossibility,” T’Pol said, gesturing with one hand. “If Trip isn’t dead, that would mean that you and the captain, and perhaps Lieutenant Reed as well, would have to have faked his death for some unknown reason. An alternative possibility is that I am becoming delusional.”
