Mestral’s Legacy: Chapter 40

Enterprise Launch Party
StarFleet Mess Hall
10:12 pm
July 25, 2154

The Mess Hall had been decorated with reflective silver and blue garlands, and a holographic display of the night sky was being projected onto a domed screen that hung from the ceiling. It wasn’t exactly like having the party outdoors, but the illusion was pretty close. Now that dinner was over–the chefs had really outdone themselves knowing that the crews (Columbia’s crew was there too) would be deprived of fresh food soon enough–Captain Jonathan Archer carried his drink from the bar and found a quiet corner for himself.

He felt he deserved a drink after the endless speeches that had been interspersed between every course of the meal. He’d had to make his own speech, of course. Smiling politely as he welcomed new crew members and said good-bye to ones who were moving on. All in all he was losing 32 veteran crew members. Columbia had managed to snag about twenty–including T’Pol, though she, at least, hadn’t volunteered–and he had to be civil about it. Some of the losses were due to promotions and he didn’t begrudge those; there weren’t enough appropriate positions on Enterprise to accommodate all the promoted crew, so some of them went to Columbia. Others had asked for a transfer. It seemed some of the crew no longer wanted to serve on Enterprise after their experience in the Expanse–why they thought Columbia would be any better was beyond him.

Another twelve had decided to move onto other things–including Lieutenant Alaia Naliek, now Commander Naliek. The new rank went with her new position as medical director of a joint project between the Vulcans and StarFleet to look into her people’s medical issues. Her brother Daniel was also part of the project, though the Vulcans were loathe to admit that they were responsible for those types of problems. There was even talk of reparations, an about face he would not have predicted three months ago.

For the moment, Vorak remained a political refugee. The Vulcan High Command claimed to have no record of the order for Vorak’s arrest, nor for any orders to get rid of Alaia’s people–not that he would expect the High Command to admit to something like that. The centurions themselves had been of no help, and had quickly been dispatched back to Vulcan. He doubted he would hear any more about their fate.

Ambassador Soval was left cleaning up the mess. Archer had to admit he did feel a bit sorry for him. He believed the ambassador when he said that he did not know what was going on, but he had also seen Vorak being dragged toward an official Vulcan flitter–something the Vulcans also had no record of. In his experience, large governments never knew what each of its branches was doing. There was no reason to think that planetary governments, or Vulcans for that matter, were exceptions.

Jonathan Archer continued his scan of the room. As was always the case when Terrans when into space, representatives of the Vulcan government were present. He saw Ambassador Soval talking to Vorak in a corner. Vulcans, but not the one he was looking for. Nearby, Phlox and Alaia were having some kind of disagreement though he couldn’t hear the details from across the room. They moved to the door, still in heated discussion. He thought he saw Alaia look directly at him, but didn’t think she could see him where he was standing. As the two physicians moved through the doors the light from the hallway cast the physicians in silhouette. She was starting to show. Twins, Phlox had let slip.

He finally saw T’Pol standing near a table that some of the Enterprise bridge crew had commandeered. Hoshi, cheeks flushed (she must have had a drink), was trying to talk to T’Pol. From the look on T’Pol’s face she was trying out her Vulcan. It was probably the first time Vulcan had been spoken by someone three sheets to the wind–he was sorry he couldn’t hear it or understand the language. Maybe he should send Hoshi over to talk to Soval. Trip and Malcolm looked a little unsteady and he was thankful that Enterprise didn’t actually launch for 44 hours. Of course Phlox could always sober them up in a hurry if need be, but somehow that took some of the fun out of getting drunk in the first place.

It was odd, watching them without being able to hear them–like a vid with the sound off: everything reduced to body language. To anyone who didn’t know her, T’Pol looked as stoic as any of the other Vulcans in the room, but he’d seen her sitting with the Columbia crew at dinner. She didn’t belong there; she hadn’t looked that uncomfortable since she had been assigned to his ship. As it stood, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He had tried a number of things, all without success. The Vulcans were adamant T’Pol stay on Earth six months, three more than Enterprise and, for reasons that escaped him, Earth’s government–and by extension StarFleet–was complying.

“Come here often?”

Erika Hernandez had sidled up beside him with a drink for him and one of her own. He took the proffered drink, going through the motions of a toast.

“How’s your crew shaping up?” He already knew the answer but hoped the question would distract her from the goal she had set for herself tonight–him. She played along, managing to get a few digs in about the Enterprise crew who were now hers.

It seemed T’Pol had already made a few enemies by suggesting changes to the sensors to match the configuration on Enterprise. Captain Hernandez was resisting them, a reaction he was familiar with, having fought his own battles with T’Pol. Whether Erika got used to her or not, T’Pol wasn’t going to be on Columbia long enough for it to matter–that just wasn’t common knowledge yet.

The only question was whether T’Pol wanted a transfer back to Enterprise. They hadn’t really talked since he left her in his cabin to go get his painkiller. She had already gone back down to the house when he got back. By the time he had sorted things out with StarFleet and the High Command several days had passed, and when he went to get his things she had conveniently arranged to be out. He took the hint and spent the rest of his leave climbing mountains across the United States.

He adjusted his collar trying to banish the itch that lurked there and silently cursed the designers. There was no reason they couldn’t make these things as comfortable as the regular uniform and yet there was always that itch, that reminder that he was out of his element.

“You know, there’s a sure-fire way to make that dress uniform comfortable,” Erika said, watching him fidget.

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”

“Take it off.” She was sipping her drink nonchalantly, but there was a twinkle in her eye. He recognized the look and had no doubt that it was a sincere offer.

“Am I interrupting?” Perfect. He turned to find T’Pol standing beside him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Erika looking self-satisfied, and he wondered exactly how long T’Pol had been standing there.

“No, you’re not,” he said hastily, shooting Erika a look and hoping she would behave herself–or better yet, get lost altogether. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to T’Pol yet and he wasn’t likely to see her again for quite awhile after tonight.

“Save me a dance,” Erika said, before moving off to talk Forrest. No doubt jockeying for a better mission that the staid shake-down cruise he had suggested after Enterprise’s initial experience. He silently bid her good riddance and turned to admire T’Pol in her StarFleet dress uniform. The only thing that marred it was the Columbia insignia.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he said, testing the waters.

“It sounded like she was trying to seduce you.”

“Okay. It is what it looks like.”

“Was she succeeding?”

“No.”

He looked at her askance but he couldn’t read her face in the shadows–not that he’d mastered the skill under better lighting conditions either.

“You weren’t around when I picked up my things.”

“The High Command had questions. They seemed to think that I had answers.”

“Oh. And here I thought you were avoiding me.”

He had been expecting a denial and found it interesting that none was forthcoming. He’d spent close to a week on Enterprise and at StarFleet headquarters sorting out the aftermath of what had euphemistically become known as ‘The Incident.’ When she hadn’t made any attempt to further their conversation, he had decided not to return to the house except to pick up his things. He’d sent a message telling her when he would be there. He showed up. She didn’t. Case closed.

“It also occurred to me that you might wish to avoid me,” she said, breaking the silence. She didn’t look convinced, and he couldn’t believe that she logically believed that. Not that logic seemed to be in oversupply when it came to the two of them.

One of Columbia’s crew staggered past, sank into one of the chairs at a nearby table and promptly spewed all over the floor. Archer walked over to check on him, eventually leaving him to the care of one of his friends who came over and apologized for the prostrate crew member before helping him down to the medics for relief in the form of a hypospray. Archer made a mental note of both of their names–one of whom would never serve on his crew. Drunk was one thing; not knowing your limitations was quite another. He found T’Pol somewhat further away than where he had left her, no doubt out of the range of the smell.

“I’m going for a walk. Meet me by the Zephram Cochrane statue in ten minutes if you want to come along.”

* * *

She wasn’t coming. He’d been standing by the statue for twenty minutes, not wanting to believe that she wouldn’t at least talk to him, watching the minutes tick by and feeling increasingly foolish. He had finally decided to walk by himself when she finally showed up.

“Phlox needed to speak with me,” she said by way of explanation. “He can be difficult to deter.”

“Really? He’s usually only like that with patients.”

“There . . . have been lingering effects.” He stopped on the path and looked at her in the moonlight.

“Lingering effects?”

“Trip tells me Enterprise’s warp engines have a 5% improved efficiency since the refit.” She was walking again and it took a few long strides to catch up with her.

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Astute observation.”
”

What lingering effects, I thought you were fine.”

The sounds of conversation drifted through the night air, and several people passed them on the path. It suddenly seemed very crowded. They walked on in silence, taking a less popular path through the garden, until they stopped passing people out for fresh air.

“What lingering effects?” She wasn’t meeting his eyes, and instead of answering him, she wandered off the path and sat down on a bench partially hidden by a tree and waited for him to join her.

“Do you remember when you said you wanted ‘more’?”

He was tempted to accuse her of changing the subject again, but curiosity won out, and he sat down beside her.

“Of course I do.”

“What exactly did you mean?”

“You’ve waited three months to ask that?”

“Jonathan, it’s important.”

“It was important three months ago,” he said, failing to keep the edge out of his voice.

“Is it no longer important?”

“Does it matter? I’ll be gone in less than two days.”

In the moonlight filtering through the leaves overhead he watched her fidgeting under his scrutiny. It occurred to him that he couldn’t remember ever seeing a Vulcan fidget.

“It could,” she said softly. “I need to know what you meant.”

“Alright, I didn’t want what we were doing to be a diversion–an experiment, curiosity, whatever you want to call it. We worked hard developing a friendship–maybe it’s not a friendship, I don’t know–but whatever it is, I don’t want to risk it for temporary gratification.”

“I see.”

“That’s it?”

“What are you willing to risk it for?”

“That’s up to you.”

“I agree that temporary diversions are problematic. However, predicting outcomes is also problematic.”

“I’m not after guarantees, just intentions.”

“I am curious whether there could be another dimension to our relationship, now that I no longer report to you.”

“Oh.” There was a chill in the air, and T’Pol was shivering in the darkness. He slid over until his leg was touching hers and, when she didn’t object to that, slid his arm around her, pulled her closer, and whispered: “I’ve been curious about that myself.”

Kissing her was just like he remembered, except neither of them pulled away for a long, long time. He moved her legs onto his lap, pulling her closer until she was sitting in his lap instead of the cold bench. He tried to see her face, but the moonlight was behind her and her face was in shadow. He reached up and tentatively traced the contour of her ear. He’d lost track of how long he’d waited to do that. She leaned forward and kissed him again.

The voices were indistinct at first. He was too distracted to pay attention; it was T’Pol who recognized the voice, but by then it was too late. He put his hands up to hide her ears and pulled her face close to his as Trip wandered toward the bench completely engrossed in charming the woman with him. Archer lifted T’Pol’s arm to hide their faces and kissed her again, hoping that in the darkness they would just look like any other couple. With any luck Trip and his companion would look for somewhere else to be alone.

The engineer was about a foot away when the conversation trailed off and his companion let out a nervous giggle. There was a pause, and he thought Trip might say something, but then they started talking again and their voices receded. After a moment he looked around to see if they were gone.

“That was close.”

“Very.” She was fingering the braid on his cuffs. In the moonlight his rank was clearly visible for anyone to see.

* * *

As soon as his apartment door closed she was plucking at the buttons of his uniform. They were hard to see in the darkness, and frustrated by the lack of immediate results, he heard the material rip. He grabbed her hand before she got any further only to find her other hand tugging at his uniform. He grabbed that hand too, surprised at the strength it took and that she was fighting him.

“Slow down,” he said, firmly holding her hands. She ignored him, twisting to free her hands. He didn’t let go, but she was stronger than he was and it was only a matter of time.

“T’Pol.” She wasn’t listening, and he was starting to wonder why he was arguing with her. He let go of her hands. She tugged at his uniform, opening it to the waist and sliding her hands inside. He undid the buttons at her throat, and unzipped her uniform. He was surprised, pleasantly, to find that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. He kissed her, distracting her long enough to push her uniform off her shoulders and guide her toward the couch. They weren’t going to make it to the bedroom. They didn’t make it to the couch: she pushed him into a living room chair after stripping him to the waist.

She stood in front of him, dropping her uniform to the floor with a flick of the hand. She leaned over and helped him off with his. He didn’t protest at her technique this time, more concerned about keeping himself intact than his uniform. As she straddled him, he saw the look in her eyes, and something tugged at his memory. He didn’t have time to pursue it, he was consumed by her and the things she was doing to him.

It wasn’t until a while later, when he had to lock his arms around her to keep her from moving, just for a minute, just to let him catch his breath, that he realized what had bugged him earlier.

“T’Pol, you never did answer my question.” How could she be doing that without moving?

“T’Pol?”

“Which question?” She was kissing him along the neck, the hollow at the base, and moving lower.

“The lingering effects.” How did her hand get there? “What were they?”

She stopped what she was doing.

“Why are you asking this now?” He didn’t dignify that with a response. She tried a different tact, “Does it matter?”

Did it?

“No.” She met his eyes, and he was sorry he had voiced the question because now there was fear in her eyes. Fear of what he would do, that he would change his mind, throw her out because she hadn’t met his human standards for commitment, deny her. Instead he loosened his grip around her waist, slid his hands lower and pulled her closer.

“No. It doesn’t matter,” he said, kissing her. It didn’t, not really.

She pulled back, breaking the embrace, rocking slowly in his lap. It didn’t matter.

“Jonathan,” she said, moving faster now. He couldn’t stop her, and didn’t want to. “My

intentions are–” Breathless now, so close, “–unaffected.”

“I know.” And he did. And it didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered.

* * *

The room slowly solidified around him. The mattress underneath cradled him and for a long time he just lay there, eyes closed, body unmoving. After an eternity he came to the conclusion that either someone had turned up both the gravity and the heat in his apartment or–he opened one eye and was greeted by the sight of a tousled head of hair resting on his chest and the enticing curve of her buttocks resting somewhat lower. Not a dream, then.

He reached up and gently rearranged the hair, revealing a delicately tapered ear. He traced the graceful contours, wondering what had been a dream and what had been reality. Maybe it had all been real, it certainly hadn’t all been a dream–he had too many sore spots for that. He remembered the entranceway, and the chair; the sofa and almost making it to the bedroom; the bedroom, the bed, and then the shower; almost making it to the kitchen, the rug in the living room, and then his desk (did his comm still work?); a rather improbable and impromptu raid of the fridge, T’Pol on the kitchen counter, T’Pol on the table, T’Pol in the living room, T’Pol everywhere, T’Pol anywhere, T’Pol, T’Pol, T’Pol.

The ear he’d been fondling moved. She shifted position, using several poorly chosen parts of his body for traction, and raised her head to look at him. He watched her eyes as she replayed their activities. There was a hint of a smile on her face as she looked at him–the Vulcan equivalent of the grin that he was trying to suppress for the sake of decorum and failing miserably. She shifted her hips imperceptibly and raised an eyebrow. He was hard again, but he didn’t think he had the energy to do anything about it.

“Good morning,” he said instead, as an afterthought adding, “I think.” The light of pre-dawn filtered through the windows, but it could just as easily have been twilight. No way to tell except to wait and see if it got darker or lighter. He didn’t have a problem with that. He didn’t have a problem with staying right where he was for the rest of his life, when it came right down to it.
Being Vulcan, T’Pol had a more practical solution, which wasn’t without its perks either. She levered herself to a sitting position–he tried to ignore the elbow in his sternum–which both allowed her to see his chronometer and brought him fully inside her. He was starting to get his energy back. He looked up to see whether she was up for it.

Her face was as close to white as he had ever seen it. He followed her gaze to the bedside table with its chronometer and felt the blood drain from his own face: 20:52 July 28, 2154. Enterprise launched–had launched–at 18:00. Yesterday.

“It’s wrong,” he said automatically, knowing that it wasn’t. All chronometers set themselves according to public atomic clocks, no user intervention required–or permitted, for that matter. The chronometer was right.

“Something’s wrong. They would have tried contacting me. They can’t just leave. And they wouldn’t just wait.” She moved off of him; he slipped on his pyjama bottoms and padded out into the living room. There was the faint crunch of glass and a muttered curse–a shattered glass or something equally unrecognizable littered the floor. Dripping blood, he limped over to the comm, which had been knocked over and shoved to the back of the desk. The controller had been knocked to ground. Righting the equipment he saw a crack in the comm panel, but it seemed to work. He had five messages–too few for an AWOL starship captain: Phlox, Forrest, Phlox, Alaia, Phlox.

Phlox, a carbon copied message telling Forrest that, as per his examination, it was his medical diagnosis that Captain Jonathan Archer was suffering from an incapacitating fever that made him unfit for duty at the present time. He expected to be able to certify him fit for duty in several days and would keep him apprised of the captain’s condition.

Date-stamped the morning after the launch party.

The next message was from Forrest, telling him that Enterprise’s launch had been delayed until 06:00 July 29th due to her captain’s illness. Forrest also wished him a speedy recovery.

Date-stamped five hours after the first message.

Phlox again, asking if “he” was alright and to contact him as soon as he felt better.

Date-stamped two days ago.

Alaia, reminding them in physician-speak that the critical period should have passed by now. Phlox wouldn’t say so, but he was getting pressure from StarFleet and without any medical scans to show them, StarFleet’s patience was wearing thin.

Date-stamped yesterday morning.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see T’Pol standing there wearing his robe. He squeezed her hand and moved onto the next message.

Phlox, a little more urgent this time, asking him again to contact him as soon as possible.

Date-stamped yesterday evening.

He was about to contact Phlox when the incoming message icon started flashing: Forrest. The hand on his shoulder disappeared as T’Pol moved out of the field of view, and he answered the call.

“Jesus, Jon. You look rough.”

“It’s been a rough couple of days.”

The truth, in a way. At least he didn’t have any trouble keeping the smile off of his face.

“I was just about to call Phlox. I’m feeling better.”

Forrest looked both sceptical and relieved, concern for his friend warring with the pressure of justifying an idle starship in spacedock and the million and a half credits it cost to keep it there–each day.

“Well, I won’t keep you then. Keep me posted.”

* * *

He had to be on Enterprise in a few hours, but not quite yet. He’d already packed his kit, what little of it wasn’t already on Enterprise. Porthos was already on board, in mandatory quarantine, poor thing. All that was left was to say goodbye. For some unfathomable reason they had ended up in the bedroom.

“A credit for your thoughts,” she said, trying out a colloquialism as she eyed the suspicious bulge growing under the sheets.

You already know what I’m thinking.

“You seem to derive pleasure from describing it to me,” she said, a husky quality to her voice that he was becoming fond of. He cupped her breast with his hand, stroking the nipple that rose up to greet him.

“Well,” he said casually, “I was thinking how sexy you look, sitting in my lap.”

She ran her fingers along his arm.

“Naked.”

Traced his shoulder and lingered at the nape of his neck.

“With me inside of you.”

And pulled him closer. The kiss lasted an eternity, and when they came up for air, she asked, in all seriousness, “Front or back?”

“Both,” he said, grinning again.

No promises, Jonathan.

THE END

(UNTIL MESTRAL’S LEGACY II)