Mestral’s Legacy: Chapter 11

April 11th, 2154
9:52 am

By the morning the thunderstorm had moved on, allowing an unrelenting downpour to take its place. Jonathan stood at the open patio door in the living room, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The humid air smelled like home: ocean and wet earth–although home had more of a note of wet pavement to it. There had been times this past year when he had feared that he would never smell that sweet scent again. Opening his eyes, he tried to catch a glimpse of the raging ocean pounding the shoreline but the curtain of rain obscured anything beyond the deck.

The steady thrum of the rain was starting to lull him to sleep in spite of his determination to stay awake. Fighting to keep his eyes open, he stifled a yawn and eyed the couch wearily. He had yet to get any sleep and dawn had already been and gone. The thunderstorm had been loud, but he could have slept through that. After leaving the hot tub though, he had been wide awake. For a brief moment he had been back on the Aquatics’ ship when T’Pol had nudged him in the hot tub, bumped by one of the creatures as they swam around him and satisfied their curiosity.

He had not mentioned it to anyone at the time since there had been more important things to take care of on his return to Enterprise, but the Aquatics had initially tried to transport him in an oxygen-saturated liquid. As water-dwelling creatures they failed to anticipate the panic a terrestrial species would feel when it awoke to find itself submerged in liquid, regardless of whether or not oxygen it could breathe. The alien sensation of liquid flowing into his lungs had been too much. He had panicked, thrashing about trying to escape, to find air. The next thing that he had known he was regaining consciousness in a small, air-filled chamber. It was not an experience that he wanted to relive, but then not much of the past year was, except for the final outcome.

Exhaustion sapped his strength and he stretched out on the couch. Reaching down he scratched Porthos behind the ears. The small dog raised a canine eyebrow at the touch.

“You’ve been spending too much time around T’Pol, Boy,” Jonathan chuckled. Oblivious to the jibe, Porthos stared longingly out the patio door. He let out a short whine and settled his muzzle between his paws. His master wholeheartedly agreed with the sentiment.

Sleepily Jonathan kept scratching Porthos until the world receded from his senses. Porthos looked up as his master’s hand stilled. He nudged the limp hand but there was no response. Within a short while Jonathan found himself back in the Expanse . . .

. . . he was laying on his bed in his quarters, clad only in his Starfleet issue undershirt and briefs. He felt the sting of the water polo ball as it bounced off of the wall, only to immediately launch it again, anticipating the satisfying thwack as it hit the wall. The mindlessness of the action was comfortably numbing, distracting him from the fact that he had just stranded an alien crew in the Expanse. The door chime sounded, and T’Pol entered, wearing her signature catsuit.

“Are you going to tell me again how wrong I am?” He watched her out of the corner of his eye as he threw the polo ball against the wall with a bit more vigour than was strictly necessary, driving home the message that he wanted to be left alone.

“My shower has been damaged.” With that announcement she walked into his bathroom and stripped off her catsuit. She stopped when she got to her grey underwear, preventing an awkward situation. Without looking back, she turned on the water and stepped into the shower.

He threw the polo ball against the bathroom wall, hoping that she found it annoying. After all, they were his quarters and if she did not like it she could shower elsewhere. He was still annoyed about their confrontation in his Ready Room earlier. He heard the water shut off and looked up as T’Pol emerged from the bathroom.

* * *

T’Pol walked into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. She heard Jonathan say her name, but when she looked up he was not there. Wandering into the living room she saw that he was asleep on the couch. Porthos was watching him curiously as he mumbled incoherently. Concerned that he was having another nightmare she stood over him, ready to wake him if he became agitated.

“What are you doing?” He mumbled, confusion marking his features. For a moment she thought he was awake before realising that he was still dreaming. She stood and watched him for awhile until it became apparent that whatever he was dreaming it most certainly was not a nightmare. Interesting, she thought, idly wondering what part she was playing in this dream of his.

* * *

He instantly forgot about the polo ball. It smacked him in the chest, dropped to the floor, and bounced several times before, judging from the surprised yelp from that direction, hitting Porthos. He could not tear his eyes away from T’Pol. Her eyebrow vaulted up into her bangs and she looked at him curiously.

“Are you all right, Captain? You seem–,” her gaze travelled lower, “–agitated.”

He realised that his blue Starfleet briefs were uncomfortably tight. A blush crept up his neck and warmed his cheeks. Looking at her, he stammered something about not getting light coloured clothing wet. For some reason he was having problems getting the words out.

“You’ve said that before,” she said huskily, taking a step closer to him and running her hand along his cheek, “but I don’t understand what you mean by it.” Half of him wanted to pull her against him and see where things went, the other half was screaming at him that something was wrong. He backed away until he hit the bed and his knees buckled. He found himself on the mattress looking up at her as she watched him curiously. The wet material of her underwear was moulded to her body leaving absolutely nothing to his imagination. He licked his lips nervously and managed to get out that light coloured material was transparent when it got wet.

T’Pol finally followed his line of sight and realised the cause of his discomfort. “Interesting,” she murmured, making no move to cover herself.

“Are you offended?” She asked guilelessly. He glanced down at the bulge in his briefs and muttered that offended was not exactly the word that came to mind. He looked up at her and wondered why he had not noticed that she had put on weight.
There was no question that she needed to, she was much too skinny, but this seemed rather sudden. As he looked at her, the slight thickening of her waist became more prominent, literally growing before his eyes. With a puzzled look, T’Pol reached down to adjust her shorts. Her hand froze as she felt her stomach bulging out over the low cut shorts.

“T’Pol, are you pregnant?”

* * *

Archer’s mumblings had captured T’Pol’s interest, particularly his last coherent question, so that she was disappointed to hear her personal comm chime. Catching herself indulging in a rather un-Vulcan sigh, she made a note to increase the amount of time she spent in meditation. The distinctive chime identified the caller and triggered a twinge of anxiety. She had anticipated that it would take several more weeks for the High Command to consider her request.

* * *

“It would appear that I am,” she said, sounding slightly surprised but not nearly alarmed enough at her condition.

“But we haven’t, I mean we didn’t . . . did we?”

“I don’t believe so.” He had a nagging feeling that he was forgetting something, but before he could figure out what the door swished open to admit Phlox. Seeing T’Pol, the physician grinned widely.

“Ah, there you are Subcommander. I see that you are almost ready.” Exchanging looks, Jonathan and T’Pol turned and looked at Phlox blankly.

“The birth of your child,” Phlox prompted. “Surely you haven’t forgotten,” he said, exasperated, as he helped T’Pol lower herself onto the bed as her condition progressed.

“Our child?” Jonathan asked, bewildered. Phlox looked at him oddly.

“T’Pol’s and Commander Tucker’s,” he said to T’Pol. He looked disapprovingly at Jonathan, letting his gaze drop pointedly. Without looking Jonathan knew that his briefs were still bulging indecently despite his lack of desire. In fact, he felt slightly sick to his stomach. He had managed to ignore the shipboard rumours about Trip and T’Pol until now, putting them out of his mind.

The door swished to admit Trip Tucker, who walked over and kissed T’Pol on the cheek as he took her hand. In response T’Pol gasped in surprise as the first contraction hit.

“Did ah miss anything?” he asked Phlox breathlessly, oblivious to T’Pol’s increasing discomfort on the bed beside him.

“Not at all Commander, Lorian won’t be born for–” Phlox paused to consult his scanner, “–another five minutes.” Jonathan watched, bile rising in his throat, as Trip and Phlox continued their conversation, oblivious to T’Pol doubled over in pain as each contraction increased in intensity. He had the thought that he should go and help her but his body refused to obey his command to move.

“We gotta find you a woman, Jon,” Trip said, grinning knowingly at him. What the hell is going on? The world spun around him and he sank into a chair. The wail of a newborn penetrated his haze and then there was a commotion as everyone got up to leave.

He watched as T’Pol, perfectly slim again, followed Trip out the door. Trip who was chattering animatedly with Lorian who was already fully grown. He could hear T’Pol protesting in Vulcan–which was strange, because since when did Trip understand Vulcan?

Jonathan sat up with a start, his heart racing. As he got his bearings, his pulse slowed, and he laid back onto the couch. It was just a dream.

Outside the rain was still falling. Over the pattering of the raindrops he could hear faint voices. It took him a moment to realise that it was T’Pol. He concentrated but could not understand what was being said. It finally dawned on him that it was because the conversation was in Vulcan; he did catch a few English words though: Starfleet, Columbia, Enterprise.

* * *

Some bureaucrat at the Consulate–Soval had not bothered to make the call himself–had comm’d to tell her the outcome of her formal resignation from the High Command. She had retained the option of returning to the High Command, even after her resignation before heading into the Expanse. The High Command needed a Vulcan that could be paraded in front of Terrans as one that had not abandoned them, and that, by association, neither had the High Command. However, she had no political aspirations and had no interest in rewriting history to show her people in a favourable light. She had tendered her formal resignation upon returning to Earth and had applied to StarFleet hoping that some weight would be given to her Vulcan training and previous standing with the High Command. All of this, of course, remained unsaid as the non-descript bureaucrat relayed his message.

“The High Command has accepted your resignation, Subcommander T’Pol. The Ambassador finds your decision regrettable but understandable.” The bureaucrat clearly thought that Soval was being too generous, but didn’t voice the opinion that was apparent in his tone of voice as he rambled on.

“The High Command has also seen fit to recommend to StarFleet that you be assigned a rank in keeping with your experience serving in both the Vulcan fleet and StarFleet. However–”

At this point, the Vulcan paused to look at her closely, noting her expression, “–However, due to the events that occurred in the Expanse and the fact that you are the longest serving Vulcan on a Terran ship, the High Command insists that StarFleet permit you to remain on Terra for a period of six months so that you may recover from your experiences in the Expanse and, perhaps, reconsider your decision to leave the High Command.”

It took a moment for T’Pol to process what he was saying, during which the bureaucrat seemed to enjoy watching her reaction, though he tried to hide it.

“Enterprise’s retrofit will be completed in three months,” T’Pol pointed out.

“The High Command is aware of Enterprise’s schedule.” The bureaucrat looked at her benignly.

“I do not require six months to reflect on my decisions or my experiences.”

“Nevertheless, the High Command has insisted that StarFleet allow you to do so. Trade talks have been rather strained as of late and this is a gesture of goodwill from the Terrans.” More likely a threat from the Vulcans to call off talks if StarFleet did not comply with the request.

“I am of most use to StarFleet serving on Enterprise; it is not to StarFleet’s advantage to keep me on Terra.”

“You need not concern yourself with that; StarFleet agrees with your assessment. When you complete your recuperation, you will be assigned to Columbia.” Now she was certain that she was not imagining it: the bureaucrat was enjoying delivering this news.

“Columbia . . .” It had not occurred to her that she would not be assigned to Enterprise if she joined StarFleet. The sound of Jonathan Archer moving around the living room sparked a new thought: “Captain Archer will not agree–”

“Captain Archer does not run StarFleet, Subcommander, just as you do not dictate to the High Command; a fact that you would both do well to remember. StarFleet will be formalising your transfer within the next few weeks; Soval thought you would appreciate advance notice.” The transmission was cut off, the bureaucrat apparently having exhausted his curiosity at her reactions. This was the High Command’s punishment for disobedience, but of course that was not how it was presented.

There was a knock on the door: Jonathan wanting to know if she was alright. She found it unnerving that he would sense that something was wrong without even being able to understand the comm call. She simply told him that she needed to meditate. Reluctantly, he left, leaving her with her thoughts: she was no longer a member of Enterprise’s crew.

* * *

In the living room, Jonathan was alone with his own thoughts. At loose ends and confined to the house, he fidgeted, unsure of what to do with himself but wanting to do something, anything, that would keep him from thinking. Usually he went for a run when he felt like this, but the weather outside meant that was not an option. Giving up he sat back down on the couch, picking up Porthos and placing him in his lap. He could not get his dream out of his mind and his thoughts returned to Lorian.

Lorian. He hadn’t had much time to think about Lorian in the Expanse, now he again found himself wondering exactly how the half-Vulcan had come to be and whether the seeds of Trip and T’Pol’s relationship had been sown before or after the passage through the wormhole.

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