The BLTS Archive - Twist of Fate
Episode 01: Hard on the Tucker
by Elessar (elessar54r@gmail.com)

---

Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek characters/names/fans'
souls/etc. If I owned it, we'd all be a lot happier.
Keystone is a  registered trademark of Coors Brewing
Company.

Notes: Jeans never went out of style, vmail is email in
video, and 'msg' is a generic term applicable to any mode of
communication, like 'texting' or 'msg'. The prologue
contains scenes taken from the weeks between the pilot and
this episode.

There have been a few minor changes of character bios since
the original release on HoT. If you go back and have to read
the pilot to remember what the setup is, remember to pay
more attention to the BIO's on THIS installment, because
HoT's has not been updated.

I owe so many thanks to JustTrip'n for helping me edit,
giving me ideas, and keeping me on task this whole time,
dedicated to continuing this series. Enjoy!

---
Characters:
---

Commander Charles Tucker III - Age 29 - Warp Field
Specialist

Captain Matthew Frederick Jeffries - Age 46 - 6'3, medium
muscular build, black hair, dark eyes, dark complexion -
Test pilot, Design Engineer

Senior Chief Petty Officer (SCPO) Virgil "Gus" Walters - Age
57 - 6'0, heavy build, gray hair, blue eyes - Engine
Mechanic, Machinist

Ensign Carly Ibanez - Age 24 - 5'2, petite build, Latin
complexion, brown hair/eyes - Electrical and Computer
Engineering

Ensign Anastasia 'Anna' Krycek - Age 26 - 5'5, petite build,
blonde hair, blue eyes - Integrated Systems Specialist

Ensign (Dr.) Sandra Martin, Ph.D. - Age 29 - 5'9, thin
build, brown hair, hazel-green eyes - Antimatter Containment
and Reactant Specialist

Lieutenant (Dr.) Franz Kirov, Ph.D. - Age 34 - 5'10, thin
build, hazel eyes, dark hair. Speaks with Russian accent. -
Plasma Physics Specialist

Lieutenant Robert 'Bobby' DeSoto - Age 32 - 5'8, medium
build, dark hair, dark eyes. - Mechanical Engineering, High
Tolerance Materials Specialist

Sub-Commander T'Pol - Age ?? - Particle Physics, Subspace
Physics Specialist

---
PROLOGUE 
---
PART I (WEEK 3) 0525 HRS 
---

"Good morning, Subcommander," a raspy voice called from
behind her. The voice creaked like old wood. T'Pol tensed
for an instant, recognizing the odor of tweed cloth and
peppermint as he approached. She turned from her seat in the
long, public transportation car to find the old gentleman
slowly making his way up the isle from two seats behind her.
Her eyes darted from bulkhead to bulkhead of the blue-tinted
hover car that took her from the Vulcan Consulate in
Sausalito to the Cochrane Warp Facility in Napa. As usual,
the transport was empty save the driver, who snored just
audibly enough for her acute Vulcan hearing to perceive,
while the auto-navigation system quietly and meticulously
guided the vehicle over San Pablo Bay.

"Bah, nobody's around, it's too early," the old man creaked
as he watched her take a gradual, controlled breath. His
veined, wrinkled hands rested loosely on the crest of a
guilded cane and he dropped into the seat, and turned to
her.

"Good morning, Mr. Puckett," T'Pol offered, meeting his eyes
briefly during an obligatory nod. The same man had insisted
on engaging her in what humans called "small talk" several
mornings prior, on a later transport across the San
Francisco area. She had since attempted to evade his
attempts at conversation, but would not be openly rude.

He smiled weakly while removing and replacing the brown
plaid poor-boy bill that covered a thick shock of gray and
white hair. She avoided the rusty pair of brown eyes that
leveled on her and refused to quit dissecting the amber,
motionless Vulcan face that never flinched. There was a long
pause.

"Don't you take the seven AM transport?" he asked her. A
slight change in her breathing revealed a moment of
hesitation.

"I have found that having a meal among my colleagues
facilitates a more productive working relationship with
them," she replied, her gaze not leaving the back of the
seat in front of her. During their previous conversation,
she had partially complied with his request to "tell me
about yourself," a trying exercise which included telling
him about her assignment at a human research lab. Mr.
Puckett considered this with a wry grin. She flicked a
curious eye at him, making only a momentary lapse in her
iron stare at the seat in front of her.

"Yes, I'm sure it would. Perhaps seeing you eat the same as
they do helps them identify with you, to understand that you
are not all that dissimilar," he baited her, with raised
eyebrows. She turned on him with a partially inquisitive,
partially insulted eyebrow.

"Well," he cleared his throat, looking toward the front of
the transport as the anti-grav unit began to buzz,
signalling descent towards one of its destinations.

"Humans tend to fear what they—what we—don't understand,
what's different," he corrected.

"That is a provincial and primitive attitude. It is one of
the reasons Vulcans have never fully entrusted humans with
our partnership," she told him icily. He shrugged lightly,
blinking slowly as he scratched a stubbly cheek.

"Perhaps," he conceded, taking a sharp breath. "But we're
hardly alone in that respect." He frowned, furrowing his
brow in thought.

"Most other species I've encountered share our discomfort
with things that are new, unknown to us. Even Vulcans," he
assured her, turning a pair of bushy, gray eyebrows on her.
T'Pol moved to pack the PADD by her side into the small
duffel hanging on one arm, sensing the deceleration of the
craft.

"I disagree, Mr. Puckett," T'Pol asserted quite assuredly,
preparing to depart the shuttle. His lips pursed in a frown
as he shook his head lightly, blinking.

"Tell me, Subcommander, you've learned that having breakfast
with your colleagues has helped you get along better; and
thus, it's assisted your functioning, correct?" he asked in
the clinical tone of a Vulcan.

T'Pol dissected the statement carefully, narrowing her eyes
in thought before she nodded in the affirmative.

"Then, why did you wait so long before doing it?" he asked,
leaning forward on his cane, as if he were chastising his
grandson. "Surely, when you worked with humans here on Earth
in the past, you came to this conclusion. Yet you did not
act on it until now. You preferred to spend a quiet meal
with your own kind at the Vulcan Consolate, rather than be
surrounded by smelly, silly humans," he raised his eyebrows.

The doors whooshed open at the front of the transport and
the driver awoke with a start. T'Pol, too, was shaken from
thought by the hydraulic sound of the doors.

"It would seem that you were uncomfortable in the cafeteria
for reasons that were 'provincial and primitive,' not
logical." the old man told her as she rose. She stood and
moved down the isle to depart without another word. The old
man bowed his head and forced a grin, shaking his head
slightly as his lips faded into a frown. As T'Pol reached
the doors she stopped and turned.

"Good day, Mr. Puckett," T'Pol nodded impassively. Looking
up in surprise, he smiled weakly and leaned on the cane to
nod in return.

"Live long and prosper, Subcommander," he called to her
back.

She stopped on the first step, and turned to find an aged
hand forming the Vulcan salute, stretched above the seat
backs. She nodded and closed her eyes before departing the
transport at the Cochrane Facility's security checkpoint.

--- 
PART II (WEEK 4) 
--- 
Cochrane Warp Facility 1000 HRS 
---

"Sir!" a voice called out.

Buried in a power conduit, Commander Tucker cursed himself
as he jutted an elbow into a power conduit.

"Yes?" he demanded, nursing a sore elbow.

"Captain Jeffries wishes to see you, sir," the crewman
responded. There were several bangs and clangs and out
poured an engineer with a sooty-looking film over his left
cheek and peppering his hair. He emerged like a chimney
sweep, pulling himself to full height and brushing off his
pant legs.

"Thank you crewman," he replied casually, dismissing the
young man. He took a breath of fresh air and searched for a
clean towel. After doing a fantastic job of turning a sharp
smear into a giant amorphous blob of carbon covering half
his face, he obliviously marched towards Jeffries' office.

"Morning Cap'n," he nodded, taking a seat. Jeffries looked
up from a PADD, returned his attention to the PADD in order
to complete some fine detail, then snapped his head up once
more.

"Commander you've got some . . ." The Captain gestured at
his own cheek.

"Ah damn, sorry sir. The coolant filter got all gummed up
and --"

"I heard," Jeffries nodded, suppressing his laughter. Trip
nodded guiltily. "If the reactor had been online, it
wouldn't have been too funny. Luckily it wasn't." The
Captain laughed. Trip rubbed at his cheek while grinning and
inspected the damage.

"Yeah," Trip groaned. "That's my fault. I forgot to check
the carbon levels last night. Came in this morning and BAM.
Ensign Kimble got a face full of soot."

Jeffries laughed.

"Yeah I felt pretty sour 'bout that so I offered to clean it
out for 'im. I swear, Cap'n, we gotta' get some bigger
access hatches though, whoever built those damn things never
had to lay in one for an hour." Trip jutted a thumb towards
the Operations Floor.

Jeffries hid a wry grin as he nodded. "I'll send a memo to
the Engineering office," he joked. Tucker continued to rub
the dirt and soot from his eyes.

"Hey, listen, what I called you in here for," Jeffries
reminded himself. "Have you had any more problems with Lt.
DeSoto?"

Trip inhaled sharply, straightening up in his soot-streaked
uniform. "No, can't say that I have. I think the talkin'-to
you gave him held him for awhile," Tucker smirked.

Jeffries nodded and raised his brows. "Hopefully for good,"
he muttered, rubbing his forehead. "That's all."

Trip rose to leave as Jeffries sat back and cradled his mug.
"Oh, one more thing," the Captain called out. "The Vulcans
are feeling a little left out; they think we're keeping
things from them by excluding Subcommander T'Pol on
day-to-day operations."

Jeffries tipped his head and sipped from his cup. "The fact
is there just isn't any precedent for a Vulcan working with
a Human crew this long and they want to know every detail.
We haven't really laid the foundation yet for what her
duties are supposed to be," he muttered, searching through a
stack of PADDs on his desk.

Trip fidgeted as he stood at moderate attention, not
enjoying the direction this was going.

"That's my fault, by the way," Jeffries added. He glanced up
at Trip and noticed the engineer shifting his weight,
looking somewhat distant. "Something wrong?"

"No sir, no. Just thinkin' about how we could include her's
all."

Jeffries laughed lightly and gave up his search for the
PADD, folding his hands across his desk. "So have I. Why
don't you let her tag along for a little while, let her get
her hands dirty," he nodded at the floor.

Trip swallowed hard, biting his lip. His day just got much
longer, and much more aggravating.

"Think you two can get along like grownups?" Jeffries asked.

"Yes. . . sir," he stammered. Jeffries stepped back from his
desk.

"Good, it's settled then," he smiled, signaling Trip's
dismissal. Trip nodded and returned to the Operations Floor.

---
1115 HRS 
---

"Point five nine."

"Good, keep goin'."

"Point five."

"All right, a little more." T'Pol looked up from her
console, catching Trip's eye as he leaned over the warp coil
diagnostic panel.

"Keep goin', it'll take it," he assured her. She returned
her eyes to her station, and increased the particle count
again.

"Point four five," she replied.

He wagged his eyebrows at her as she continued to stare at
her console. He was disappointed when she didn't look up,
take in the gesture, and give him that little stone-faced
dismissal he was becoming so familiar with.

"Few more, gimme' point two," he told her. He intentionally
sliced syllables and drowned vowels in his drawl just to
irritate her.

"Point two," she annunciated, with a hint of relief in her
voice. Trip slapped the side of the console in triumph.

"There, see? We know how to build a power grid after all,"
he grinned down at her from his station just above hers. She
refused to crane her neck at him, and only even glanced at
him when she had to, but the incline forced her round hazel
eyes to open wide, batting long eyelashes that were
surprisingly feminine.

"The design is adequate to handle very small power loads,
however you will find it requires a great deal of adjustment
in order to function with the Mark VII reactor," she
replied, clasping her hands at the back of her as he clanged
down the steps from the catwalk.

He scoffed and grabbed a white towel from a cubby hole and
wiped his hands.

T'Pol continued. "You will need to reach a power
distribution coefficient of point zero five to operate
efficiently at even fifty percent reactor output," she
stated matter-of-factly.

"We'll get it there, I promise you that. I know what she can
do," he told her, wagging his eyebrows at her again. T'Pol
turned and started walking and Tucker fell in step with her.

"That is a dangerous attitude to have about such a powerful
device. I do not see how you could possibly have any
intuitive understanding of its capability. If the proper
test protocols are not followed and the power node fails,
accidents may occur," she warned him.

"I do have intuitive understanding of its capability,
T'Pol," he asserted confidently, stopping at the locker room
door. She did not expect this to be their destination, but
her attention had wavered while they were talking.
Apparently, she had merely followed him.

"I designed the Mark III power distribution node," he told
her with a light smirk. "I need a shower after purging the
coolant filters."

T'Pol nodded with flared nostrils and fingers fixed at her
back. Tucker noticed the subtle nuance.

He chewed his lip, deciding whether to be cordial. "Sorry
'bout that. I heard somewhere Vulcans have very sensitive
noses," he pointed up at her face.

"Only females," she corrected him.

"Oh," he nodded. "Well I hope I wasn't too offensive," he
grinned sardonically, pressing a hand to the large metal
hatchway leading to the locker room. "I've got a lunch date.
I'll see you later."

T'Pol thoughtfully paused, her glance fixed on the door as
it swung shut while she carefully digested this intriguing
piece of information.

A lunch date?

--- 
PART III (WEEK 5) 0540 HRS 
---

"Subcommander, good morning!" Mr. Puckett greeted T'Pol.

"Greetings, Mr. Puckett," T'Pol returned. The transport
shuttle was empty as usual, and Mr. Puckett occupied an isle
seat in the middle. T'Pol took usual seat in the center of
the row adjacent to his. He watched from the corner of his
eye as she held in front of her a PADD of some interest,
perhaps containing some unfinished report or technical
analysis. She wasn't reading it, but was considering it in
some way. When she apparently reached a decision, she slid
the PADD into a pocket of her robes and confidently rested
her palms face down on her thighs.

Over the last few weeks, Mr. Puckett had successfully broken
through the Subcommander's outer surface and managed to
interest her in conversation on several occasions. Her
silence on this particular morning was unusual, even odd, he
thought. Each time he glanced over, her gaze would be lost
in the intricacies of the navy blue seat back in front of
her. Normally when she was avoiding him, she would look out
the window and seem to drift away, but her demeanor this
morning was different. She was cogent, even hyper-focused on
something. He began to sense an inquiry building behind her
lips.

"Mr. Puckett," she turned towards him. He looked up as if
surprised.

"Hmm?" There was a pause.

"Something is troubling you, Subcommander?" T'Pol's eyes
broke from their solid trance and decisively fell on him.

"I would like to ask for your advice regarding a . . . 
problem that I have encountered, with my human colleagues."

"Go on," he told her.

"One of the human officers initiated an altercation with me
three days ago."

"DeSoto, again?" Mr. Puckett asked. T'Pol nodded.

"What was it about? Was it serious?"

"Lt. DeSoto failed to follow proper protocol for the
initiation of stage-three controlled shutdown of the reactor
manifolds."

Mr. Puckett was silent while he dissected the terminology
that meant next to nothing to him.

"Was this a. . .  Vulcan protocol?" he asked. T'Pol didn't
flinch.

"Yes."

Mr. Puckett nodded, rubbing his stubbly chin with an aged,
worn hand.

"Perhaps you are expecting too much of them, too early," he
began. "From what I've been able to gather, Vulcan rules and
protocols about this kind of research are stricter than
Starfleet's. Perhaps they just more need time to learn
them," he offered. The Subcommander's eyes narrowed as she
responded.

"Lt. DeSoto is the only crewman who seems incapable of
following them," she responded.

"And, you immediately informed him of his mistake, right?"
he asked, nodding.

"I did," T'Pol replied.

"In front of everyone?" he asked expectantly. T'Pol
swallowed while she considered the question.

"Yes."

"Don't you think that may be the root of your problem?"

"I do not see how it is relevant. He clearly refuses to
follow Vulcan procedures and the project is using Vulcan
technology. The humans are obligated to follow our
protocols," she replied, somewhat heatedly.

"Alright, I see your point, but you need to understand
something about humans," he put his hands out, gesturing.
"We don't respond well to embarrassment and the Lieutenant
is probably embarrassed when you call him out in front of
the others. You see, you are holding him to a very specific
set of rules that Vulcans have, and that's fine," he made
his palms flat for emphasis. "But there are also an unspoken
set of rules among humans, particularly in team situations
like the one you're in. One of the rules is that you can't
embarrass someone in front of everyone and then expect them
to respect you. We don't work that way," he said.

"But that is an emotional reaction to a purely professional
evaluation of his –-"

"Exactly," Mr. Puckett interrupted. T'Pol lifted an eyebrow
curiously. "Humans react emotionally. You have to keep that
in mind. We're not good at separating personal and
professional relationships, for us one can't exist without
the other," he shook his head. T'Pol was quiet for several
moments.

"It is inefficient to involve personal relationships with
professional work," T'Pol declared finally. Mr. Puckett
almost sighed, though he couldn't help but break a smile.

"You're damn right, it can be very inefficient. But you
haven't experienced the more positive consequences of it
yet," he warned her, rattling a finger in the air at her.
Her deadpan response brought the old man's eyes wide.

"Friendship, Subcommander! Haven't you ever asked yourself
how in the hell this undisciplined, illogical, emotional
race has managed to achieve technological wonders and united
its planet under peaceful rule after decades of world war?"

"Several times," she replied dryly. Mr. Puckett couldn't
help but laugh.

"Exactly, that's because you're missing the secret
ingredient to understanding our strength. Emotional
attachments strengthen a group, a team like the one you're
in. And if you can manage to adjust to them as you expect
them to adjust to you," he emphasized, "then you just might
make some friends," he told her finally. She raised a
doubtful eyebrow and rose to depart the shuttle.

"Thank you for the advice, Mr. Puckett. It has been . . . 
intriguing, as usual. However, making friends is an
illogical pursuit for a Vulcan," she nodded, making her way
down the aisle.

"Perhaps when you're around other Vulcans," he called behind
her. "But not around humans!"

Subcommander T'Pol stepped through the shuttle doors and
moved towards the front door of the Cochrane Warp Flight
facility.

---
Operations Floor Friday of Week 5 1525 HRS 
---

As Subcommander T'Pol walked the Operations Floor on her way
to drop her weekly report off at Commander Tucker's office,
she noticed Lt. DeSoto working at his console. She stopped
about ten meters shy of his station, and then glanced
towards the back of the floor towards Tucker's office. He
usually was not in his office in the late afternoon, so she
had grown accustomed to simply letting herself in and
leaving the PADD on his desk. It was highly unorthodox
compared to the exact manner in which a report must be filed
with the Vulcan Consulate and presented in person, often
before an entire board of superiors. The Subcommander
admitted to herself that she found Commander Tucker's lack
of desire for such ceremony preferable.

Returning to the present, she moved towards DeSoto's station
and hovered near enough to spy a mistake in his work. He
glanced over his shoulder and noticed the Subcommander's
ever-critical presence. Resisting the urge to grind his
teeth, he forced his attention back on his work and ignored
her.

"Lieutenant," she spoke in a low voice, approaching him
silently. Her voice startled him, and he turned with an
instinctive contortion of his lips into a growl.

"You can't just sneak up like..." he stopped short of
raising his voice at her and sighed. "I'm sorry, you
startled me, Subcommander. What is it?"

"I was wondering if I may speak with you in Commander
Tucker's office?" she asked, consciously keeping her tone
even and her face blank. It was the only way she knew how to
try and act 'friendly'. DeSoto noticed that she seemed to be
making an effort not to make a scene of the engagement by
speaking in more hushed tones than usual. He wasn't sure
what to make of it, but he didn't have any real good reason
to refuse.

"Sure," he turned and walked to the office as T'Pol
followed.

When they reached the office, T'Pol turned and shut the
door. She carefully laid her weekly report to Commander
Tucker on his desk and turned to the Lieutenant. Her hands
clasped at her back, she addressed him.

"I want you to know, Lieutenant that I feel no personal ill
will towards you. I wish to apologize for any indication I
may have given otherwise," she bowed her head slightly.
DeSoto turned a few shades of red, standing at rigid
attention, momentarily paralyzed.

"You may sit, if you like," T'Pol offered. The Lieutenant
exhaled gruffly and suddenly turned round in a circle,
finding the couch against the wall of Tucker's office.

"It's not that, Subcommander. It just seems like you single
me out all the time for somethin' I'm doing wrong," he
confessed.

"I assure you that that is not the case. I hold everyone to
the same standards. However, you must understand that it is
critical to the safety of this facility and its crew, that
the proper protocols be followed." DeSoto nodded in
agreement, but raised his head in defense.

"Sometimes Vulcan protocols are just kind of . . . " he
searched for the word, twisting his lips. "...Asinine," he
finished bravely. T'Pol raised an eyebrow and moved toward
him.

"I assure you they are very important," she responded
sharply. "However," she acceded. "I can understand your
difficulty acclimating to an entirely new set of
regulations. Therefore I will omit last week's offense from
my report to the Vulcan Consulate."

"Wait a second, you have to report to the Vulcan Consulate
every week? And I've been in it every time for all the . . .
things we've gotten into?" he asked, gesturing between them.
T'Pol nodded. DeSoto dropped his head into his hands and
rubbed his face.

"And what do they say?" he asked, raising his head. T'Pol
raised an eyebrow.

"My people interpret failure to follow safety regulations as
a sign of incompetence of leadership. The perception of
incompetence and insubordination has not boded well for the
continued support of this endeavor from the Vulcan High
Command," T'Pol told him matter-of-factly.

"Are you tellin' me that I might jeopardize this project?"
DeSoto asked in disbelief.

"Lieutenant, you and the rest of the human crew have
demonstrated an impressive technical ability to understand
our technology," she admitted. "It is decades beyond your
current level of development," she amended with a tilt of
her chin, diluting the compliment.

That's amazing, DeSoto thought. In an arrogant way, I think
a Vulcan just complemented a bunch of humans.

"I also wish to avoid failure in this project. Perhaps you
and I can reach an agreement?" she asked.

"Like what?" he stood up, straightening his uniform. T'Pol
reticently took a labored breath, narrowing her eyes at
DeSoto.

"I'm sure as hell not gonna' be the one to shut this place
down," he declared. "Pardon my language, Subcommander." She
nodded.

"You agree to follow Vulcan protocols from now on without
error?" T'Pol asked sharply.

"I'm not perfect, Subcommander. But I give you my word I'll
do my best," he said firmly.

"Very good. Lieutenant, I noticed on your console that you
were running a high pressure simulation on the injector
valves with only one open valve. That configuration will not
satisfactorily test the injector housing for
microfractures."

"Oh, no, Subcommander, I was actually testing a new rapid
shutdown scheme I've been working on in my spare time. If
the reactor starts to overload, the EPS relays are usually
too fried to respond to command and control functions, so
I've been working on a way to configure an automated
self-shutdown scheme that responds to residual commands in
the hardware abstraction layer of the shutdown subroutine."

T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "Are you qualified to work with
those systems?" She asked.

"No, ma'am. But Ensigns Ibanez and Krycek have been working
on it with me in their off duty time as well," he said with
a light smile.

"It is an innovative concept, Lieutenant. Please keep me
apprised of your progress."

"Yes, ma'am," he nodded with a grin.

T'Pol nodded and turned to leave. Just then the door creaked
open and Commander Tucker entered.

Trip had taken two steps into the room, eyes still planted
on his coffee mug when he nearly stepped right into T'Pol.

"WHOA!" Trip yelled in shock.

"Commander Tucker," T'Pol greeted him calmly. Trip put a
hand on his chest and looked with wide eyes from T'Pol to
DeSoto.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph you scared the hell outta' me!" he
was breathing hard.

"Who?" T'Pol asked nonchalantly. Trip ignored her.

"Wait a second, what's goin' on here? Is there a problem
again?" he asked, raising his voice. DeSoto began to
scramble for the right words but T'Pol spoke up.

"No, Commander. There is no problem. Lieutenant DeSoto and I
were discussing an intriguing safety measure that he and
Ensigns Krycek and Ibanez are developing."

Trip blinked in confusion, still suspiciously flickering his
gaze between T'Pol and DeSoto. T'Pol was an unreadable
statue of calm, but DeSoto looked flustered.

"You are dismissed, Lieutenant," T'Pol said, interrupting
Trip before he could turn his invasive stare on DeSoto to
pry the truth out of him.

"Commander," he nodded, anxiously moving past Trip. When he
was gone, the office was silent and Trip took a few paces
while T'Pol merely remained still and stoic. Trip spun on a
heel near his couch and pointed a finger at T'Pol with
thinly veiled suspicion.

"What just happened here? Did you two just. . .  are you?"
he asked, embroiled in confusion.

"Commander, I have prepared my weekly report for you and it
is on your desk." She stepped sideways and nodded at the
PADD. Trip raised his jaw and chewed his lip as he walked
up, slid past T'Pol and picked up the PADD. He looked down
his nose in mock accusation of T'Pol as he inspected the
PADD.

A few moments later he looked up. "There's nothing in here
about a new safety measure," he said with a conspiratorial
glint as his eyes narrowed.

"I only just learned of it. The three officers were working
in their private time on it," she told him calmly.

"Uh huh," Trip remarked. T'Pol didn't flinch at first, but
maintained a steady gaze on the far wall. Seconds later, her
resistance failed and she met his accusatory smile.

"Ah ha! See!"

"I do not see anything, Mr. Tucker. Other than your very
strange behavior," she retorted.

"Uh huh," he dropped himself on the couch. "Strange like a
fox," he muttered. T'Pol lifted a confused eyebrow. Before
she could inquire, Trip changed the subject.

"T'Pol what are you doin' this weekend?" Trip asked
abruptly.

"Everybody goes out for a few drinks after work on Friday,
you should come. Have some fun, you know. You wouldn't have
to drink, hell I don't always," he acceded, trying to derail
her first obvious excuse.

T'Pol had easily hidden any trace of her misdirection
regarding DeSoto with a wall of imperceptibility spread flat
across her face. But now it was gone, its departure only
describable as 'thunderous'. Her eyes widened, surprise
showing across her face before she could regain a seemingly
impassive veneer.

"Vulcans do not take the weekends off for recreation. I will
be on duty at the Vulcan Consulate," she answered. Tucker
frowned.

"Well that sucks," he blurted out. T'Pol raised an eyebrow
this time in complete confusion.

"Though I do not understand the colloquialism, I take it to
mean you are disappointed," she queried. Trip laughed,
running a hand through his hair.

"Don't flatter yourself darlin'. I just think you all should
get out and enjoy what you've got around you every once in
awhile. Hell, that seems logical doesn't it? Where's the
sense in building this beautiful world with technology and
peace and beer and ribs, and not enjoying it?" he put his
hands out wide. T'Pol's lips winced as she turned towards
the door.

"Perhaps another time, Mr. Tucker."

"Hey when you gonna' start callin' me Trip?" Tucker asked
with a snap. T'Pol turned to find the venom in his voice hid
behind a grin.

"Never," she promised him, exiting the office. "Good day,
Mr. Tucker."

"Live long and prosper, Subcommander," he drawled after her
as she disappeared through the door.

---
WEEK 6 
----
Glen Canyon Park Apartments 0725 HRS 
---

"Dreaming about starships again?" Natalie teased him as Trip
rolled over, tugging a mound of covers over his face. She
rose and walked to the bathroom with a pillow in her hand.
Biting her lip and grinning, she hurled the pillow. It
connected, yielding a muffled grunt.

"It's too early," Trip whined under the covers. Natalie
disappeared into the bathroom for a few minutes before
returning. Trip sat up, squinting against the oppressive sun
as it beamed through the open blinds. Trip sat up against
the headboard and began to rub both eyes. When Natalie
appeared from the bathroom, Trip's hands stopped mid-motion,
not daring to cover his eyes. She stopped and forced an
offended frown.

"You lookin' at me?" she demanded, cocking a devilish grin
with a hand on one bare hip. Her hair, of a shoulder length
dark coffee brown, hugged the shape of her head in a tight
bun. A few strands ignored their binds and fell down her
face, tickling her nose. She was thin, moderately shapely
around the hips, rising to five foot eight. Trip laughed,
rubbing his stubbly chin, taking her in from bottom to top.

"Well you're a little naked, darlin'," he replied with a
drawl. There was a pause while Natalie began to dress. Trip
squinted with a curious smirk and blinked.

"Did you say I was dreaming about starships? Why, did I say
somethin'?" he asked in a lower voice. Natalie just smiled
and shook her head.

"Oh, you kind of giggled and said something about wanting to
see her warp coils," she laughed, slinking into a pair of
khaki pants. "I'll never understand why you boys call a ship
'she'."

She twisted in front of a large mirror, scoping her own
backside in the pants then turned to inspect herself from
each side. When she looked back at him, Trip was rubbing a
thumb across his lip, chin turned downward in recollection
of the dream. Little was returning to memory, but none of it
had anything to do with starships—of that he was certain. He
did remember one thing, but. . .

"Hun?" she called.

"Huh?" Trip jerked back to reality. Her whole statement
finally registered. "I don't giggle!" he argued, ignoring
his lapse in attention.

"Don't you have to get to work?" she asked, pulling a shirt
from the closet. He glanced at the clock.

"Oh, sh. . . " he mumbled, jumping out of bed. Removing
himself from the covers, he appeared naked on the other side
of the bed, searching the stand by the bed for his clearance
badge.

"OW!" Natalie called out as she admired the view. He turned
a pink-tinged grin on her and shook his head, moving to the
shower. She turned away from the closet and jumped in front
of him before he could reach the bathroom. Tipping his head
back, he chuckled at the ceiling.

"C'mon, let me thr—" She stopped him with a ferocious kiss,
and a firm palm planted on his behind. She pulled away for a
short moment, her lips hanging just out of touch from his.

"Now get your cute butt into that shower before you're late
for work," she whispered. Squeezing his firm buttocks, she
swung back in to plant a last scathing peck on his lower
lip. As she pulled away, his lower lips remained softly held
by her mouth, stretched away from his mouth. A grin teased
his lips as Trip watched her disappear through the bedroom
door.

"How an' the hell do you do that?" he muttered under his
breath.

"Don't forget about lunch today," she called back to him,
walking barefoot down the carpeted hallway.

Trip smiled as he threw a dark undershirt over his head. "I
know, hun."

"I'm glad you're here," he called after her. There was
silence.

Outside the door to the bedroom, Natalie chewed her lower
lip and frowned as her face fell shamefully. She blinked,
but buried the pang of guilt quickly. She forced a smile and
turned the corner back into the room.

"Me too, sweetheart."

---
Cochrane Warp Facility 0805 HRS 
---

"Admiral."

Trip nodded and smiled at Admiral Rachel Nagala as she
passed him, climbing the steps in front of the building.
Nearing the door, he noted a tall pair of Vulcans standing
aside from the entrance, speaking rather intensely, for
Vulcans. One of them caught the Commander's glance and
abruptly stopped talking, instinctively expecting his words
to be picked up from the impossible distance between them.
His ears weren't Vulcan, and he merely glared as they spoke
in more hushed tones.

That's weird, he thought, as he entered the building. He was
in too bright a mood this morning for a pair of stuffy old
Vulcans to ruin his good humor, however, and brushed off the
encounter easily. As the transparent aluminum doors came to
a heavy close behind him (designed to dampen an interior
explosion), the conversational lull of the building's lobby
became audible. On his left as he approached the security
checkpoint, an expansive cafeteria and public food court
allowed visitors and tour groups to stop and eat without
having to pass through building security. There was also a
cafeteria beyond security for enlisted and commissioned
officers, however, the larger array of choices in the
civilian food court often drew Starfleet personnel.

As Trip walked towards the security checkpoint, badge in
hand, his eyes wandered over the building, still not quite
over the awe he felt the first day through the doors. On the
far right, a huge pane glass window even taller than the
Cochrane statue next to it received only the backwash of the
morning sun's rays as it faced the west. Parents and
children littered the area around the statue, some mimicking
Cochrane's star-struck pose, others climbing the marble step
around the behemoth to read the giant plaque inscription.
Tucker chuckled to himself as a pair of sandy-haired kids
whizzed across the floor with a model of The Phoenix held
high above their heads, only to be scolded by a woman who
resembled his own mother.

"Good morning, Commander," a voice interrupted. Turning to
find Subcommander T'Pol walking up from the food court, he
smiled curiously. Nodding over her head from which she had
come, he fell in step with her.

"You eat here? That's kind of surprising," he told her with
a smirk, ready for her to snap back. He didn't care. He was
in the mood to push her buttons a little today. To his
surprise, however, she responded quite casually.

"Apparently your people have an affinity for Vulcan cuisine.
There is a Vulcan eatery in the far corner," she told him,
hands clasped at her back as they both entered the line
forming at the security checkpoint. Several individuals
ahead of them in the line, two to three personnel at a time
walked through a large scanning device that resembled a
short tunnel.

"It any good?" he asked as the line moved. T'Pol turned to
him, raising an eyebrow.

"It is surprisingly adequate," T'Pol replied. Trip turned
and looked over her little frame towards the Vulcan eatery
and spied a pair of Vulcans behind the counter, taking
orders from a pair of civilians. He chuckled inwardly, but
unfortunately it became audible. He looked down to find
T'Pol's brows narrowing at him. It almost amused him even
more.

"Oh, it's just that I'll never get over the sight of Vulcans
takin' orders," he laughed, expecting real fallout this
time.

"Why is that?" T'Pol asked, biting back a venomous reply.
She would play this encounter more cautiously, as it
appeared the Commander was intentionally attempting to
irritate her. Is she irritated. . . ?

"Well it seems like everybody on your planet's an
intellectual. I can't imagine Vulcans drivin' garbage trucks
or flippin' burgers."

T'Pol cocked her head curiously as the line advanced.

"Vulcans do not consume meat products," she told him
matter-of-factly, looking him in the face as she awaited his
reply. All that followed was a hearty laugh as he turned
towards the security attendant, showed his badge, and
dropped his house key and a utility knife into a bin that
would go through the detector. T'Pol did the same. He
watched as she dropped a strange pendant of some kind into
the plastic container.

"It is a common misconception made by humans that all
Vulcans are intellectuals. There many Vulcans on the
homeworld fulfilling civil service vocations," she went on,
as they passed through the security station.

"The majority of Vulcans that humans interact with are in
the sciences or The Diplomatic Corps," she concluded. Trip
nodded as they conversed, pleasantly surprised, at how
amiably they were getting along.

When he arrived at the other side of the detector, he
watched the pendant come through the other side and turned
to rib her about the strange jewelry.

"Say, T'Pol, what's a Vulcan doin' with –"

"Trip! I-I mean Commander Tucker, I'm so sorry!" a feminine
voice called. He turned away from T'Pol to find a ghost-pale
Carly Ibanez with her hands on her cheeks looking bleakly on
as Commander Tucker and Subcommander T'Pol both emerged from
Security. T'Pol blinked from the Commander to the Ensign,
and took her possession from the bin, moving off hastily.

"Good day, Commander," she called over her shoulder. Trip
whipped back and forth from the stunned Ensign Ibanez to the
retreating T'Pol in confusion before finally realizing he
was holding up the line.

"Ensign, what—what are you talking about, what's wrong?" he
asked, moving away from the line towards her. She only
sobbed harder as he moved her off to the side, leading her
away by the shoulder. They were in the corner of the atrium
between Security and the main areas of the facility:
Engineering, Administration, Mess, and the Diplomatic
quarters, for visiting dignitaries, mostly Vulcan.

"What's wrong, Carly?" he asked, shaking his head in
confusion as she looked back in horror. The young girl's
tears began to fall again as another voice interrupted.

"Trip, you better get in here. It's important," a thick
voice called from behind him. He turned to find Gus looking
winded as if he had hurriedly attempted to follow the young
Ensign. Trip looked from Carly to Gus in total confusion.

"Would someone tell me what the hell's goin' on?" Trip
demanded finally, losing his patience. Carly burst out into
more tears.

"I will, Trip," Gus shot back, meeting the sobbing face of
the young Ensign with a stern eye. He motioned with him
again like a father ushering his son to the back of the
house to explain a loss.

"She'll be alright, let's go," he assured Trip, who rose
hesitantly away from the sniffing and sobbing Ensign.

"Carly, why don't you go get cleaned up and take a break
until lunch. I'll cover with Jeffries, don't worry," Trip
told her, his hand still on her shoulder. He still had no
clue what was upsetting her, but she obviously needed time
to clear her head. She nodded through a last sob and thanked
him, blotting her eyes with a tissue as she walked away.
Trip turned back to Gus with a look that said, 'This better
be damn good' as they walked towards the Engineering
section.

---

As they passed through the Operations Floor, protracted
glances and stares bit at Tucker's patience and he grew
irritated and concerned.

"Ok now what the hell is going on?" Trip hollered, as Gus
shut the door of Tucker's office behind them.

"Hey, calm down." Gus told him in a voice just above his
normal tone but strong enough to wither a recruit into a
recoiled fruit peel of his former nerve. Trip took a breath
and turned round as he dropped his hands to his thighs and
sat down. Gus took a seat opposite him on the far wall and
blinked hard as if he hadn't slept.

"You've missed a lot," Gus told him.

"What are you talkin' about? It's Monday morning!"

Gus cut right to the chase.

"This weekend the Gamma Shift was on, they were testing the
thermal regulators on the blowback valves." Trip nodded as
his brows drew together, sensing at least partly what must
be going on.

"Ensign Ibanez, Lieutenant DeSoto, and Lieutenant Norman
were on duty. There was a glitch of some kind during the
startup routine and... Ensign Ibanez failed to report it."
Gus hesitated as he ran a hand through his graying hair and
nearly yawned.

"During the pressure test, we almost lost containment," he
told him. Trip threw his head back and cursed.

"That's right. We could have had a serious problem. But, our
people acted quickly and the problem was resolved. If you
ask me it was our finest hour yet," he said under his
breath.

"I'm sure the Vulcans agree," Trip moaned, covering his face
as he leaned back in his chair.

"We've been on twenty-four hour alert since the near-breach.
Vulcans have been in and out of the office all weekend, and
more brass than I've seen . . .  well ever, I suppose," Gus
chuckled dryly.

"Yesterday morning we initiated a full sequence shutdown of
the main reactor," he said. The air went still as Trip
realized those words were very likely the project's eulogy.
A full shut down meant they didn't intend on powering it up
again, at least not on this planet.

". . . and Captain Jeffries is already talking about
reassignment of personnel."

Trip's head was spinning too much to articulate a response.
It was all like a bad dream he couldn't wake up from.

"Diplomacy's not exactly my area of expertise, but I'm
pretty sure the Vulcans aren't too happy about it," Gus told
him as he leaned back on the couch. As he digested the news,
Trip was lost, staring up at the ceiling. Suddenly something
made sense.

"Now, if you don't mind," Gus continued, "I've been on duty
for almost thirty hours, so I'm going to take a nap," he
cocked one eye open at his superior officer who was clearly
not listening. "That alright with you, sir?"

Trip ignored him, thinking of T'Pol.

"Sonofa. . .  she knew and she didn't say anything!" Trip
slammed a fist on the desk, jolting Gus from a pleasant nap.

Before Gus could inquire, Tucker was on a warpath through
the office door. Gus thought about getting up and trying to
stop Tucker. "What can ya' do?" he asked the emptiness of
the office. "That kid's got it bad and he doesn't even know
it," he muttered, nodding off.

----
0915 HRS
---

Trip paced, hands on his hips as he stood at Captain
Jeffries' office door. The Operations floor was eerily
silent without the hum of the 10-story warp reactor to fill
its walls and rattle its catwalks. The vibration was nearly
indiscernible, but its absence was conspicuously felt. While
waiting for Jeffries, Tucker glanced about the machine floor
and the catwalks, noticing a sharply lower number of people
on duty today. He bit his lip, wondering how he could have
managed to pick this weekend get away with Nat. If only he
had been here, maybe. . .

Cocking his head, he peered around the corner of the window
to the office door. The blinds inside were drawn, but he
could see Jeffries pacing as well, hands on his hips as he
silently argued with an unseen figure on a communication
screen located on the desk. When Jeffries threw his hands
out wide it was clear the argument had become heated, and
shortly after, it ended as Jeffries gruffly punched the call
off.

"Come in!" he shouted, and the door automatically unlocked.
As Jeffries watched Tucker come through the door and close
it behind him, he blinked through the anticipation of
another unpleasant conversation. Jeffries expected Tucker to
explode any minute, but the reserved engineer sitting in his
office was thumbing his fingers together while he waited for
Jeffries to start.

"That was Admiral Pierce," Jeffries told him, forebodingly.
Tucker nodded gravely, pursing his lips.

"He's in charge of the project," Trip said to himself,
speaking aloud.

"He was in charge of the project," Jeffries turned to Tucker
to say, still pacing from one side of the office to the
other.

"How can they shut us down over this, why is Starfleet just
lying down for this? From what I hear our people handled it
very well!" Trip exclaimed, shifting in his seat. Jeffries
closed his eyes and shook his head and then stopped and
rubbed his eyes.

"Trust me, nobody's lying down," Jeffries snapped. "This is
just the excuse that hard-line Vulcans needed to call for
their hardware back. They can't shut the project down, but
they can demand we return their reactor, and that
effectively ends the project."

"Dammit!" Trip yelled, slamming his fist into the couch
beside him. He was all the more agitated when it just went
plush into the material and didn't make any noise.

"There's gotta' be something we can do. Somebody we can talk
to," Trip asked, grabbing for straws.

"Sure! We can talk to a Vulcan," Jeffries laughed
sarcastically. "A Vulcan who wants to shut us down."

Trip froze as his blood went cold, in preparation for the
boiling anger that he already saw coming. "Who?" he
demanded.

"Who do you think?" Jeffries asked, moving his eyes up to
the engineer from his downcast face. Trip shook his head and
squinted.

"T'Pol," Trip tasted the word like vinegar over his tongue,
more disgusted with her now than ever. She stood there and
carried on a civilized conversation, all the while savoring
the fact that she was about to put him out of a job, and
worse than that, ruin his dream, and set Starfleet back
another fifty years.

Jeffries nodded quietly. "She's the Vulcan liaison officer.
It was her recommendation following the accident that the
facility should be shut down. Though I'm not so sure it
really made much difference," he stood against the desk,
folding his arms. "I have to tell you, the conference
between the Admiral's Council and that Councilor V'Len that
Subcommander reports to," Jeffries began. Trip nodded in
understanding. "Well it sure felt a lot like a formality. I
doubt T'Pol's testimony had much to do with it."

There was a long pause.

"Captain, I'm sorry I was unreachable. I—" Trip started.
Matt waved his hand and interrupted.

"No, no, Trip, don't worry. You were in Colorado with
Natalie; it's not your fault. And there's nothing you could
have done if you had been here."

Jeffries cracked a smile as he chuckled to himself. "We
might even be in sorrier shape if you had been here, the
temper you've got with Vulcans," he told Trip out of partial
amusement and partial warning. Jeffries kept his eyes
trained on Trip as he went on.

"That's the same reason I don't want you going anywhere near
Subcommander T'Pol. What's done is done, the last thing you
need to do is ruin your career. AND mine, by the way," he
rose his voice. Trip began shaking his head.

"No, no sir, let me talk to her, please."

Jeffries threw his head back in disbelief.

"Trip, you're absolutely the LAST person I want talking to
her, is that clear?" Jeffries exclaimed, losing patience.

He waved his hand at the desk. "I've been on the phone with
twenty Vulcan diplomats all day, and twenty more yesterday.
They won't even take my calls anymore!" he yelled at the
phone, venting his frustration.

"But they'll take hers right?" Trip prodded.

"Trip, please—"

"Cap'n, I need to do this, I—I give you my word I won't lose
my temper with her. Just give me one chance to talk to her!"
he begged him. Captain Jeffries leaned forward, resting an
elbow on the table and holding his temple. He looked for the
downside, and realized it would be the end of Trip's career.
He had to admit, he could easily be isolated from Tucker's
behavior if he got out of hand.

"Fine. But it's your own head," he called, as Tucker
disappeared through the door. Jeffries turned back to his
paperwork as Tucker stopped in the doorway. Before he
stepped through the door, he turned, his eyebrows drawn in
question.

"She's in the situation room," Jeffries told him without
looking up from the desk.

---

Around the same time Commander Tucker stormed out of his
office to have a word with a certain Vulcan, Franz Kirov sat
in the civilian eatery, a half-empty bowl of Plomeek broth
in front of him. He was busily writing, scratching, writing
and again scratching against a PADD he had laid flat on the
desk. He was so engrossed in the work that he was startled
and nearly toppled his soup when a clunk hit the table.

"Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you," Lt. Martin
apologized. Franz pushed up his glasses as he met the tall
brunette's courteous smile and then shyly turned away.

"Oh, it is no—no problem," he told her, returning diligently
to the PADD in front of him. Sandra sat down and started
munching on her mid-morning snack, hoping the silent
engineer would strike up a conversation. She should have
known better, she sighed to herself. Engineers never were
very talkative. Well, almost never, she amended. Sandra
thought of herself as outgoing, but not exactly the
"boy-toy" type, like a certain blonde ensign that would
throw herself at Commander Tucker every chance she got. She
disgusts me, Sandra recalled, of Anna Krycek. Franz was no
dashing Commander Tucker, but he seemed nice enough, and she
had heard a rumor that he and Commander Tucker were good
friends. That seemed odd.

"What's that you're working on?" she asked politely. His
head jerked up in surprise, with a little irritation in
them. He found a round pair of brown eyes anxiously
interested, or so she seemed. He became less irritated.

"It is just something I work on in my spare time," he smiled
weakly and returned to the PADD. He was obviously quite
frustrated with something, and Sandra calmly frowned and
took another bite of a croissant.

"May I ask what it is?" she asked again.

"It is technical—you wouldn't—" Sandra was patient, but not
that patient. Her tall frame gave her the reach on most men,
and she easily leaned in and snatched the PADD from his
fingers. Franz groaned in frustration but didn't protest.

"Ah. . . " was all she said, as she scrolled through the
contents in interest. Franz waited for her to return it and
pretend that she had any idea what was on it.

"Hermite's Last Postulate, hm. . .  You're trying to solve
it?" she asked with raised eyebrows. He was stunned for a
moment, and then nodded quickly.

"I'm impressed," she lifted her voice. "I think I see your
problem here, though. It looks like you've got the
space–time Klein-Gordon equation. If you're going to apply
it to lattice gauge theory you need the time-independent
perturbation term as well," she told him, returning the
PADD. He hurriedly took it from her, paging down to the
section in question. After some key strokes, he looked up
with a grin.

"Yes, this is correct, thank you!" he told her through his
accent.

"Oh, it was nothing, just a little slip-up. There's a lot
more to be done. Now if you publish you have to credit me!"
she teased him. Franz laughed so hard he nearly choked,
which only made Sandra laugh harder.

"We may all need new jobs before too long," Sandra said,
sobering, as she looked over the brim of her tea. Franz
looked up from the PADD and nodded.

"I cannot believe they want to shut us down for this one
thing. Trip is going to be very upset," he shook his head.
"I mean Commander Tucker," he adjusted his glasses.

"How long have you known Commander Tucker?" Sandra asked,
expertly probing for the piece of information she had
wondered about.

"Oh, long time, long time," he replied in somewhat broken
English. "We competed together at ninth grade science
competition. I came from Odessa Technological Institute to
compete in Panama City for prize of trip to visit site of
first contact in Montana," he recalled.

"Wow. That sounds great. I have to ask," she smirked. "Who
won?" Franz grew red in the face as he smiled to himself.

"You did, didn't you!" she teased him.

"I insisted to him his project was still better. He had
medium-range transporter powered by what you call it. . . 
car battery?"

"Where'd he dig up one of those?" she laughed. Sandra was
all-ears, resting her chin on her fist as she listened. "I
do not know! I asked him same question!" Franz laughed.

"So, did you two stay in touch?"

"Yes, we sent vmail. And then, when I graduate with degree
from Zurich, I came to United States to study for doctorate
at University of Florida, because they have excellent plasma
research lab. I was quite surprised to learn that Commander
Tucker lived nearby. Eventually we went on trip to Bozeman,
Montana again, to makeup for loss," he laughed.

"You know, you can call him Trip in front of me," Sandra
laughed, sipping her tea. Franz turned red and nodded
nervously.

"Anyway, so how did you both end up in Starfleet?"

"We attended many conferences on propulsion together, and he
helped me get my first post with Captain Jeffries at
research station in Oregon." Franz paused, as if considering
something. "Where did you go to school?"

Sandra shrugged and turned a little pink.

"You don't wanna' hear about me," she laughed. "Tell me,
everybody's wondering. . . " With a conspiratorial glint in
her eye, she lowered her voice.

"...How did Trip get to be a commander so young?" she asked.
Franz nodded quickly, as if expecting the question at some
point.

"Yes, you see, Commander Tucker did not finish degree at
university." Sandra made a deadpan look at Franz before
shaking it off in shock.

"What? How is that possible?" she asked in disbelief.

"He began university program in Physics at University of
Florida, as I did for graduate studies. But he took
internship with Starfleet Engineering during second year and
did not return to school. He took permanent research
position in Oregon under Jeffries. He was enlisted rank
then," Franz explained. "But. . .  he would like it if this
information not. . . " he thought carefully. ". . .  Go
around? He is. . .  little embarrassed when other officers
learn this. I believe one day he will finish degree. But he
told me he felt no need at the time, he was offered job
which he would have wanted when he became graduate anyway,"
he shrugged. "Some of us should have been so lucky," he
smiled.

Franz looked up and noticed he had Sandra's total attention.
He enjoyed it, but at the same time realized with cold
disappointment that it was because he was talking about
Commander Tucker.

"A few years later, I was Ensign and received assignment to
Shenandoah. When I told Trip, he became very excited and
decided to enroll in officer candidate training, and became
Ensign. At that time very few enlisted engineering crew were
given chance to serve aboard ship, and Trip wished to go
into space. Only year later, Jeffries promoted him to
Lieutenant. He recommended me to Captain Jeffries; he was
Commander then, and we work together at Oregon Research
Station," he said. Sandra blinked idly, her hands folded
across her chest, having finished her meal while fixated on
Franz's story.

"We also went to visit Cape Canaveral, where they used to
launch old space shuttle, you know?" Franz went on.

"I've read about it, I can't believe that brick would fly!
Did you see it?" Sandra asked.

"Yes, Commander Tucker was quite impressed by it."

"Impressed? It's a 200-year-old hunk a' junk!" she
exclaimed.

"Yes, Trip has fascination for antiquated technology. I must
admit, it was very, very large structure. Incredible
creation for such a limited technology," he spread his hands
out, indicating the shuttle's size.

"It's amazing how far we've come, isn't it?" she asked. He
grew quiet again and sighed.

"Yes, but now it could slow down again, like for one hundred
years, as before."

---
Situation Room
---

"Enter," the Subcommander ordered. When the doors drew open
and revealed Commander Tucker, she was initially surprised.
That reaction was quickly replaced with anxiety, and
something else she could not readily define.

"Subcommander," Trip nodded, with a sharp exhalation, biding
his temper into a ball in the back of his mind. He looked
about the room and noticed a PADD and a vacant chair where
the petite Subcommander had risen from. His glance moved
from the chair as it swayed slightly from her motion of
having gotten up, and then arrived at the pompous, rigid
Vulcan. She's so tiny, he thought, with disdain more than
anything else. This little creature was so unnerving, so
irritating, and threatened to ruin his life's work!

His hesitation was almost Vulcan-like in its austerity. A
few moments later, the delay was nearing irksome, even for
T'Pol.

"Is there something I can—" she began.

"Don't," Trip snapped loudly, before biting his lip
painfully. He grunted through the pain, drawing a curious
narrowing of T'Pol's brow.

"Don't act like you don't know why I'm here," Trip said,
more composed. T'Pol paced along the long boardroom table.
She did not yet wish to come near to Tucker, not yet sure of
his stability, and she did not wish to be forced to hurt
him. Her eyes tracked him as she moved, like an animal
preparing to defend itself.

"Yes. You have heard about the incident," she recalled
calmly, her voice betraying that calm slightly as it hit an
unusual tone. In her voice, she tried to apologize for the
deceptive levity of their previous conversation, but Tucker
didn't hear it. In so few words they had managed to have an
exchange of cultural knowledge, a sharing of space, and
relinquishment of barriers. The instant had been so brief
that it felt to T'Pol, now, standing in front of him with
clenched fists, as if she had lost something.

Tucker blinked rapidly and took a deep breath. Come on Trip,
you can have a rational conversation. Don't make this Vulcan
right about you, he told himself.

"T'Pol, it's not necessary to shut down this entire
operation because of one slip up. Our people caught it in
time to prevent anyone from gettin' hurt, or any damage
comin' to your precious little warp reactor," he told her.
His voice rose as he worked himself up.

She blinked as if considering his arguments, though in
truth, she had heard them from every officer in the
Admiralty. She opted to take an alternate approach from
stern rebuttal of his claims.

"It is not me with whom you must make a case. The Vulcan
High Command has made this decision, not me." He shook his
head and looked at the floor.

"I heard about your recommendation," he snapped back at her.
She took a breath and nodded discretely.

"I know you've got influence. You can use it. You can
convince them that we deserve a better chance at this than
that!" he pleaded, searching for an ally as he moved towards
her, fixing his eyes on hers more steadily. He hadn't a clue
why, but a fraught, hopeful urge gave him the courage to
reach out for her help.

Her eyes grew wider in response, and she resisted a
shortness of breath that erupted from her chest as he came
closer. Her nasal numbing agent seemed to be weakening, as
she felt the intensity of the scent of his agitated state
work through her neurons. The agent must be failing, she
thought to herself, as she willed away a curious tickle at
the base of her spine. That's odd, she mused, as the scent
became stronger, she expected it to become nauseating, even
pungent, as she found every human's, particularly males.
This was different. . .

"Even if I did possess such influence, you are in error if
you believe I would use it this way. It is illogical to
continue to put people and material at risk when you
obviously are not ready for this technology," she told him,
her voice rising slightly. Trip's brow drew together as he
watched with surprise while she seemed to edge away from an
emotional outburst of her own. He looked around the room for
some kind of inspiration. He stepped into her face, lowering
his voice to a whisper.

"You tell me that not one person has ever died on Vulcan in
the pursuit of technology, of warp drive," he demanded, with
a straight-faced zeal that put a lump at the bottom of
T'Pol's throat. For an instant she was transfixed on his
gaze as he held it interminably on her little pools of
brown, spread wide, revealing a sea within that was not as
calm as its exterior.

"Yes, there have been casualties," she said finally. Trip
broke the trance on her and nodded, turning around. She
released a sharp breath and blinked as he removed his scent
from her immediate area. It felt as though he had
relinquished control of her eyes to her, and she struggled
for a few seconds to remember how to use them without
looking at him.

"So, you can't tell me that this field doesn't have its
costs, for everybody," he swept his hand towards the door.
"We're not special, but dammit we know the price! We've paid
our way here and we're prepared to see it through!" he shot
his finger at the ground. T'Pol didn't move, but ached to
turn her eyes on him. She couldn't, she experienced an
emotion that prevented it – fear. Biting his lip, Trip
turned towards the door.

"We deserve another chance to do this," he told her soberly,
looking around to force her to look at him.

"This argument is devoid of rationality," she blinked,
insisting the same of her own compulsions toward this man.

"Ah, to hell with all of you, then," he went to the door.

"Commander!" she turned, stopping him as he reached the
release the lock. Her fingers fidgeted at her back as she
held them clasped.

"I do not have the authority to give you another chance,"
she told him. He paused, looking at her for another moment,
searching her eyes for an opening, but she was sealed.

He turned and left.

---
Cochrane Warp Facility 1745 HRS
---

The lobby was nearly empty, save the security guards and a
few tourists still trickling through the main doors and
observing the statue of Cochrane, with orange rays of the
setting sun illuminating the bronze.

A group of the officers congregated at a pair of tables in
the food court. It was empty by this time of day, as all the
shops and eateries had closed. A few employees lingered in
the area, cleaning tables and emptying trash receptacles,
while the officers conversed in low voices, many of them
casually sitting on the tables and relaxing like primary
school students.

A tall blonde man in a blue jumpsuit started through the
security checkpoint. He was looking down at his chest,
unbuttoning his overalls while making for the main doors
ahead of him. After what was arguably one of the worst days
of his life, Trip was ready for a relaxing night at home and
a great night with Natalie.

"Commander!" a troupe of voices called out in unison. A
torrent of immature laughter broke out, predominantly from a
pair of girls at the table. Trip looked up instinctively at
his salutation, and grinned curiously as he turned towards
them. His jumpsuit remained half-unbuttoned, revealing a
fitting white tee-shirt underneath. As Trip neared, he
noticed the appraisal of Anna Krycek, who was obviously
taking advantage of being off duty. Next to her, Carly
Ibanez anxiously averted her eyes as Tucker approached.

"Hey gang, what's goin' on?" he asked as he surveyed the
group. His whole senior staff of officers was present, save
Gus. Even DeSoto, Trip noted, who didn't look particularly
pleased to see him.

"Jeffries let everybody go early, since we'll all be out of
a job soon," Anna groaned, standing up. Most of them had
changed into civilian clothes, except for Sandra and Franz.

"Ah, and tomorrow?" Trip asked, unbuttoning his tunic and
pulling it over his head. His hair became mussed, but he
smoothed it to the side, as the girls looked on aimlessly.

"School's out tomorrow too!" Anna cackled, referring to
their day off.

"I guess they've got some house cleanin' to do," Trip
muttered, un-tucking his tee-shirt. He rubbed his jaw
thoughtfully, mindful of the stubble beginning to reach an
unkempt length. Stillness came over the group while the
girls observed him pull the length of his engineering
jumpsuit off to reveal a pair of jeans underneath.

"So we're goin' out for a few beers," DeSoto broke in,
irritably.

"Come with us!" Anna spoke for the group.

"Guys, that sounds great, but I don't know if I can tonight,
I go—"

"Oh uh, uh," Anna teased him with her eyes dead set on his,
looking him down from there. "No excuses, sir, you're
going," She told him. Though he was spoken for, Trip
couldn't resist a good game of cat and mouse. He grinned,
running a hand through his hair as if to consider.

"Yeah, come on," Carly braved, hearing herself sounding a
bit like a mouse.

"I'm in need of a pretty mean shower, ladies," he drawled.

DeSoto was nearing his tolerance for this crap. "If he
doesn't wanna' go, let him go home," he told the girls. Anna
turned and gave him a dirty look. Franz watched the whole
exchange with clinical curiosity, taking care not to make
eye contact with any of the contributors to conversation.
After all, he was quite sure he was not invited.

"Frankie, you goin'?" Trip asked him. Franz looked up like a
deer in hull lamps. Before he could answer, Sandra broke in
next to him, nudging him with her elbow, her hands folded in
the pockets of her jumpsuit.

"Frankie?" she laughed, nicely. Franz grew red in the face
as he stammered in Russian to explain.

Anna was about to dismiss the tangential conversation with a
snide remark before Trip interjected. "It's his nickname,
like mine, Trip."

Suddenly Anna was interested.

"Yes, Frankie's going. Aren't you, Frankie?" Anna asked,
turning a sly grin on the awkward Russian officer. Franz
looked from Anna to Trip to Anna, to Sandra, then back to
Trip, and nearly lost his glasses looking back and forth.

"C'mon, it'll be fun," Trip insisted, jerking his head to
the side. Trip had often tried to help his buddy make
friends, and this would be the perfect opportunity. Franz
begrudgingly nodded, but smiled when Sandra offered a kind
nod back.

"Good, it's settled then. We're all going," she said,
confidently including herself.

"Let's go already," DeSoto complained, stalking away from
the table.

Trip would phone Natalie on the way to the bar and let her
know he would be a little late is all. No problem there.

---
0130 HRS
---

"Last call!" the bartender called out, as he looked up at
the clock. Besides the group of Starfleet officers, only a
scant few scattered patrons still occupied Red's.

Half a dozen pool tables of aged construction were bolted to
the floor between the doorway and the bar. The old-fashioned
establishment had several rows of booths with high wooden
backs opposite the bar. Down the alley between the bar and
the booths were arranged two new billiards tables, a game
called dom-jot which had recently made its way to Earth.

Sandra stood against the wall nearest one of the dom-jot
tables, swigging a beer while she held the cue at arm's
length, balanced against the floor. She had changed into a
white tank top and dark cargo pants that accentuated her
previously unrevealed figure. Starfleet Engineering wasn't
exactly a fashion show. Franz's shot sailed across the board
and set off a chain of whistles and high-pitched whirs as it
dropped into one of the pockets. Sandra kicked her foot off
the wall as she positioned herself at the table to take her
shot. DeSoto appeared next to her as she leaned back, lining
up the cue, similarly as one would in ordinary billiards.
Leaning over the table, Sandra lost her concentration as she
looked up and caught DeSoto lending an appreciative eye on
her butt. She glared at him until he was aware she had
caught him, but he hardly flinched as he chuckled and took a
swig. Sandra rolled her eyes and took her shot.

"Not bad," he cajoled her, setting his beer down.

"I'm a pro at this game though," he said, taking a cue off
the wall. Franz stopped mid-step while approaching the table
to take his shot. He backed off.

"No, Robby, its Frankie's shot!" Sandra yelled. Trip looked
over his shoulder, leaning up to peer over the headboard of
the booth at the exchange. It seemed to simmer down, so he
slumped back into the booth. Across the bar, DeSoto remained
at the tables causing trouble, but Trip had his own dilemma
brewing.

---

While the dom-jot game heated up, so did the perseverance
Miss Krycek. Over the course of the night and half a dozen
shots of whiskey (a few of which she had wrangled Trip into
sharing with her), Anna had slipped her way closer and
closer to Trip, who was now clean up against the inside wall
of the booth. Earlier in the night, DeSoto and Carly busied
one another in conversation, as did Sandra and Franz,
leaving Trip no recourse but to suffer Anna's advances
kindly and at first, with amusement. He didn't dare cross
that line of course, but a little harmless flirtation was
legal. He didn't want to be rude and create an issue with a
subordinate. A subordinate, he reminded himself.

As the night drew on, however, Anna was inching her way
closer to Trip when he felt a leg slid over his own. Must be
the alcohol and the bad news, he thought, but the thought
was difficult to resist. She was a beautiful woman to boot,
and obviously interested in him, but he had to find himself
a way out of this and back home to Natalie. Just letting her
think the advances were 'ok' felt wrong.

As the bartender repeated the last call and 0145 approached,
Trip found an opening.

"Well, it looks like the bar's closin' soon, I think I
better be goin'," he grinned kindly at Anna, and the lonely
Carly across the table. DeSoto had left her a few minutes
earlier to join the game of dom-jot. Carly was not initially
all that disappointed at his departure, but she soon
realized his company was the only thing keeping her from
being the dreaded third drinking wheel. Across from her
wriggled her best friend all over her dreamboat's lap,
whispering and kissing at his ear all night.

Anna leant forward and whispered a suggestion into Trip's
ear. He struggled to control his reaction, trying to
remember she was sitting on his lap and he did not want to
encourage her.

"I don't mean to be rude, Anna, but I've got a girlfriend at
home and I really need to be goin'," he insisted coldly,
fitting his hands rigidly around Anna's hips and removing
her from his lap. Her face drew into a stern reprisal and
she recoiled.

"Don't touch me!" she screamed suddenly, shocking both Trip
and Carly into silence. She stalked out of the booth and off
to the bathroom. Trip threw his hands up in front of Carly,
who blew a gust of air over her forehead to make her bangs
dance. Trip chuckled lightly and she grinned weakly.

"She does that," Carly bemoaned through a sigh. Trip shook
his head, covering his mouth through a yawn.

"Oh, I really do need to be getting' home," he said,
shuffling out of his seat. Carly followed to walk him out,
but after that she would be staying. A few minutes after
Tucker left, she would undoubtedly find herself consoling
her drunken friend, and she expected that soon after that,
she would be holding her friend's hair back while she
vomited.

Carly's head started to pound as she stepped out of the
booth, which was elevated above the bar floor by about a
foot. Trip turned to the right towards the back of the bar
where the dom-jot tables were located, because near them was
the back exit which lead to the public service transport
cue.

"Commander, I'm so sorry I missed the glitch in the startup
routine. This whole thing is my fault," she told him. Trip
turned to face her and gave a weak smile.

"First of all, call me Trip off-duty, alright?" he said, and
she nodded with a guilty grin. "Second, forget about it,
it's over. We'll sort it out in the morning."

Behind him, Trip suddenly heard a loud thwack, breaking
glass and a thud with a loud gasp from Sandra somewhere in
between. Stunned by what she saw, Carly could only watch as
Trip ran towards the dom-jot table where Robby DeSoto lain
sprawled out on the wooden plank flooring, holding his jaw.
Chunks of glass littered the floor at the foot of the wall
where his beer bottle had shattered after flying from his
hand. Trip looked from DeSoto to Franz who was breathing
heavy, in as much shock as anyone else, his fists still
clenched white. Sandra, too, standing next to Franz, was
still in shock, actually holding herself steady with an arm
on Franz's shoulder. He looked at the arm, as did she, both
looked at one another, and then she removed it.

"Frankie, what'd you hit him for?" Trip asked in disbelief.

"Trust me, he had it coming!" Sandra broke in before Franz
could answer. Franz was speechless anyway and hardly capable
of articulating an explanation.

---
0153 HRS 
---

Trip yawned as he walked with Franz up the street to the
public transport cue. It was a chilly night, and he gazed up
to the stars he knew so well, their twinkling color bolded
and brightened by the half dozen beers sizzling through his
neurons. Suddenly he burst out in laughter.

"I can't believe you slugged him!" He laughed harder as he
turned to Franz. Franz looked back and forth then laughed at
his feet.

"I cannot believe it either," Franz moaned guiltily. "Do you
think I will receive court martial?" he asked Trip
sincerely.

"Ah hell no, man. It was off duty and you're the same rank.
Besides, I'm sure Sandra's more 'an willing to call Robby on
sexual harassment if he does press charges." Trip laughed.
"From what Sandra said, he deserved it. He was actin' like a
jerk," Trip said as they climbed the uneven sidewalk. There
was a long pause as they climbed the hilly San Franciscan
road, and Franz glanced at the tracks running down the
middle of the street.

"He touched her behind," Franz said. Trip nodded.

"She didn't like it?" Trip asked in a sidelong glance. Franz
seemed to stop and think for a moment. Their breath was
visible in the December air and both men were clinging to
their jackets as they looked over the crest of the hill
towards their destination.

"I did not think that far ahead," Franz confessed. Trip
laughed aloud. "I'm just kiddin' buddy, I'm sure she didn't.
Not from the way she told it anyway," he laughed.

"Fact is, I think she's got a thing for you," Trip baited
him. Franz looked at him, suddenly in shock.

"Well, don't look so surprised, cowboy. You just knocked a
guy on his ass for bein' improper with 'er. Hell, you were a
regular Clark Gable back'ere," he drawled, laughing.

--- 
One Block from Glen Canyon Apartments 
---

As the transport neared Trip's stop, he slapped Franz on the
back and stood up, grasping the pole for balance as the
automated trolley descended to the ground. Hydraulics
deployed and pressure releases were heard as the trolley
came to a halt.

"Frankie, I'll see you in a couple of days. Keep that right
hook under control."

Franz grinned. "Thank you, Trip." Trip nodded.

As Trip stepped off the trolley and it pulled away, he
turned towards his apartment complex with a grin.

---








-------

Rooting through his side pockets, Trip found nothing. Jacket
pockets, again nothing. He frowned, then reached for his
back pocket and felt the outline of a keycard.

"Ah," he thought aloud, as he recalled how the card had
migrated from his front pocket: The wormy hands of a certain
little Ensign, prodding and probing his legs on alcohol's
wings of boldness.

He stepped in the door of his apartment and found all the
lights off. The bright halogen bulbs adorning the elevated
catwalk he crossed to get to his apartment door had
sensitized him to bright light. As he stepped into the room,
the utter blackness made it hard to see anything. He
squinted and kicked his shoes off as he strode into the
darkness, throwing the door shut behind him.

"Nat, hunny, I'm home," he called out gleefully, forgetting
the time as he anticipated taking her in his arms, even more
as lent by his intoxication. The house was silent, strangely
still, even as his eyes pulled back the darkness like the
drawstrings on a stage curtain.

"Nat?" he called, throwing the card down on the counter
along with a utility knife he carried to work every day. The
knife was heavy and durable, given to him by his father. It
hit the table with a muffled thud instead of a loud clang,
betraying the presence of a clump of paper. He began to
think Natalie must have gone to sleep without him and felt
bad for calling out so loudly, when the noise of knife
suddenly registered.

He walked round the edge of the countertop and found the
black-handled knife atop a single piece of paper, folded
four times into a square. He moved the knife and opened the
paper.


Trip,

I'm sorry but I just can't have this long distance
relationship, only seeing each other every few months. . . I
won't be coming back. . .  I'm so sorry.

Natalie


With a loud sigh, Trip crumbled the note into a ball and
dropped it on the counter. He rubbed his forehead for a few
moments and groaned. Trip paused, his fingers working
against his tired eyes, then migrating down his cheek. His
fingertips drew slowly down over his chin. The sensation
evoked an acerbic memory of Natalie looking up at him, her
soft palms cradling his cheeks in their warmth. How do her
hands get so soft?

He blinked back to reality, taking in the darkness, the
emptiness, of his apartment. Somehow it even felt empty, as
if the absence of her and her things somehow left the air
frozen in place. Moisture built in the corner of his eyes.

"Aww, hunny, why?" he asked the empty room, his head bowed,
eyes locked on the paper that crumbled in his fingers. Only
crickets answered his plea in a rhythmic hum.

Trip turned towards the door, pocketing his keycard. He
slipped on a pair of tennis shoes, threw off the jacket to
his Starfleet jumpsuit, and reached into the closet. He
pulled out a thicker coat he had picked up in Oregon, and
then headed out the door. To where, he wasn't sure.

A few minutes later the door shot open once again, and Trip
stomped in. He crossed the main room to the kitchen, and
decisively opened the fridge. His coat screeched as he
zipped it to the top, and strode back through the door,
12-pack in hand.

--- 
0328 HRS
---

On the Starfleet grounds, Trip sat with a bottle between his
legs, looking up at the huge alabaster monolith of the
Phoenix, first warp-capable vessel ever built by Humanity.

Plasma HID lights flooded the base of the structure with a
sea of bright white light, illuminating every crack and
crevice in the 50-year old memorial. A ceremonial unveiling
had been part of the mourning carried out when Zephram
Cochrane was lost conducting a deep space experiment by
himself. Every engineering professor he had known would have
said that going off on your own to conduct a dangerous
experiment like that was a grave mistake—they would say
Cochrane was a fool. Trip never really understood why he
would have done such thing. He had always assumed Cochrane
was just a little cavalier, and wanted to tack into the
wind, or the emptiness of space as it were.

As he emptied the bottle and tossed it into the pile, it
clanged in response as Tucker finally understood. Just
wanted some goddamn freedom to do things his way—away from
the Vulcans, Trip thought. He collapsed backwards onto the
grass. The cold, spiky blades crunched against his neck and
imparted their early-morning dew into his rough neck. It
would have sent a chill down his body but most of his senses
were completely cluttered with a comfortable, numbing cloud.

"Good morning, Commander," he heard.

"Oh God," he said, groaning into the grass. "I can't even
get 'way from 'er in my 'ead. I'm dreaming. No, no I'm
hallucinating. Why the hell would I dream of her? Hmm. Could
be worse, I 'spose," he chuckled, drunkenly. He closed his
eyes and began to nod off.

"Commander, I do not think it would be wise to be found on
the Starfleet grounds in such a state as this," T'Pol said
as she walked up beside him. His eyes sprung open, his brow
together in partial shock, partial disbelief, and partial
fright.

"What the hell are you doin' here?" he asked instantly. The
Subcommander seated herself on a rock bench that was
conveniently placed for one to view the Phoenix display. He
could tell she was wearing those long, gold and red robes
that the Vulcans wore if it was cold or they were on some
diplomatic trip. Trip didn't bother to sit up. Actually, he
wasn't sure if he could. T'Pol quickly surveyed the engineer
as he lay on his back in blue jeans, a large plush coat, and
a box of something labeled "Keystone" next to him, nearly
empty. A few empty bottles lay unceremoniously piled around
his feet and one still upright on the stone base upon which
she was sitting. It was quite obvious that he was
intoxicated.

"I believe a common phrase on this planet is, 'I could ask
you the same thing'," she replied. Did he sense a bit of
humor? No, it must just be the alcohol.

"No, really, what are you doin here?" he asked again.

"I have a meeting with Admiral Forest in two hours," she
replied shortly. Trip furrowed his brow and threw his head
back into the grass.

"Oh, that's just great. I'm sure this little incident is
lookin' great for me," he laughed, taking another swig of
beer. T'Pol couldn't help but marvel how he managed to drink
from a bottle while lying down and not choke.

"Regardless of your personal habits, Mr. Tucker, I intend to
inform the Admiral that I will speak with the Vulcan High
Command on behalf of your program and request reinstatement
of the lease on the Mark VII warp reactor."

Trip looked bewildered. He dropped the bottle from his lips
as the remaining liquid swished around the bottom. He licked
his lips, and with some effort, he struggled to an upright
position. He threw it to the side and blinked as he focused
on the middle T'Pol. She relaxed into the bench slightly and
peered contemplatively at the Phoenix sculpture.

"I suppose this is an appropriate place for a drunk to seek
refuge from his responsibilities," she said.

"T'Pol, you don't know what the hell you're talkin' about,"
he told her dismissively. "I'm not a damn drunk!" She raised
an eyebrow at him and allowed her eye to wander from bottle
to bottle. Trip followed her glance, looking around him.

"Ok, I can see how it would appear that way," he replied,
nodding in agreement. He took care to annunciate carefully
and maybe thaw himself out a little.

"But really, T'Pol," he said in a low voice, raising his
eyes at her steadily as he sat back on his hands.

The Subcommander fidgeted her fingers beneath the folds of
her robe.

"I'm not a drunk," he repeated. She looked away. There was a
long pause.

"Wait, did you say you're gonna' go to bat for us?" Trip
said, not quite buying it. T'Pol's brow narrowed as she
frowned.

"I do not recall claiming to do anything with a 'bat'," she
retorted.

"Nevermind, I got it," Trip said to himself, collapsing back
onto the grass. "So, about my 'personal habits'," he laughed
aloud.

"Commander, you need to remove yourself from the ground."

"Huh?" he asked. "No, so tell me," he ignored her. "Have you
ever even had one drink?"

T'Pol sighed inaudibly. "Vulcans do not imbibe alcohol. Your
behavior right now is a perfect explanation for why," she
replied tersely.

"Nothin' wrong with my behavior, darlin', I'm bein' nice,"
he said, turning his head towards her. "I'm bein' nice
aren't I?" He gave her the best Tucker grin he could muster.
Worked pretty well in highschool, he though.

She fidgeted and blinked through a wave of frustration as he
tongued his cheek and went on.

"Your uncharacteristically agreeable demeanor is likely a
side effect of the alcohol you have consumed."

"See, as we were talkin' about earlier, humans just do
things a little differently than you folks," Tucker went on,
ignoring the implicit insult. "Now if you really followed
all a' that tolerance crap you're always teachin' us and
sayin' you follow, you'd understand that, and you'd leave us
the hell alone about all the things you don't approve of us
doin'. Me in particular," Tucker drawled, as he turned a
sidelong grin at T'Pol and smiled.

"Hell, you might even have some fun for once in your life,"
he muttered under his breath, well aware of her acute
hearing.

Intolerable! T'Pol grunted inside and shivered as a cold
wind blew through her hair, irritating her warm-acclimated
Vulcan temperament.

"Mr. Tucker, if you do not go home and take shelter you will
become ill," she scolded him again.

"Then go inside! I know your pretty green fanny can't handle
the cold, so go," he complained. She nearly turned green
with anger, even if she didn't understand the colloquialism,
she knew enough about human slang to have a rough idea. She
abruptly stood up and moved towards Tucker. He looked up at
her in alarm but all too late, for an instant later she had
reached down pulled him up by the arm, bringing him to full
standing height. He wobbled, but was able to stand.
Stubbornly, he allowed his legs to collapse under him anyway
and he went down, hitting his head.

"Dammit, T'Pol! What'd I tell you?" T'Pol looked down in
frustration and disbelief at the engineer sprawled out on
his back.

"Have you so intoxicated yourself that you are unable to
walk?" she asked in disgust. He rolled his eyes and
retorted.

"That's kinda the point, darlin'!" he called back at her.
"Dulls the pain," he muttered quietly.

"I do not see how intoxicating yourself beyond capacity for
rational thought is conducive to achieving the
reconsideration of my government. It is certainly no way to
earn our respect," she lectured him. Her voice had become
stern, but she didn't sound dismissive as before. She looked
on him with wide eyes and he couldn't help but blink,
feeling a little foolish.

"As you so frequently remind us, Zephram Cochrane broke the
warp barrier only ten years after your planet was devastated
by nuclear holocaust. But that kind of achievement was
hardly made through this kind of . . . " she paused,
composing herself mid-sentence.

". . . self-indulgence. Why do you waste your talent this
way?" she asked in a soft voice. Trip was quiet, blinking as
if he had just been berated by his grade school principal.
He felt smaller. Even though she had complimented him, it
served only to remind him how low he had sunk. Still, he
thought. She doesn't know anything about Natalie. She thinks
I'm just mad about the shutdown.

T'Pol knelt forward mechanically and Trip took the
invitation by reaching his hand out. She hesitated before
taking it. A moment later, she helped him up by taking on
some of his weight as if he were injured.

"Why the hell you care anyway, Subcommander?"

"It would be unethical to leave you to become ill. Or worse,
to be discovered here," she replied as she walked him
towards the public transport cue. He decided to cut back the
act and walk under his own control, albeit with a little
surprise that he was able. I must have really been laying it
on to get under her skin, he thought of himself.

"Was that a joke?" he asked.

"Vulcans do not make jokes," she responded flatly. He
laughed. "You know you kill me sometimes," he said, glancing
over at her. She sensed his gaze but averted her eyes. There
was an awkward pause before she managed a detached reply.

"You do try my patience, Mr. Tucker, however; taking your
life would be against my principles," T'Pol replied curtly.

"Gee, that's a relief. Listen, T'Pol, I really do appreciate
what you're doin'."

---
0410 HRS 
---

"Hey T'Pol, I'm sorry about those things I said," Trip said,
slurring, as she helped him off the trolley. T'Pol paused,
breaking the agreement she held with herself and turning to
look in his face. He turned and looked back, pools of blue
that seemed to wobble and shimmer. She was aware of the
effects of alcohol and quite sure that his levity was simply
induced by its inhibition-lowering effects. Quite sure.

"This is my room, here, I think I can handle it," he said,
pulling his card out. "Thanks," he muttered, finding the
keycard.

"Hey wanna' come in a minute?" he asked, passing through the
door, without stopping to turn. She opened her mouth to say
no, of course not, but it did not come out. He may still be
in danger, she thought, and it would be prudent to assure he
make it safely to rest without losing consciousness or
hurting himself. Commander Tucker disappeared into a back
room as she entered and closed the door.

"Just make yourself at home I gotta' use the bathroom," Trip
told her. It felt odd that he was treating her like just
another human, like a friend. It felt extremely odd that she
found herself in his apartment.

She found herself frozen in place, inspecting every piece of
furniture, every picture frame, until her eyes came to a
halt on one she found particularly intriguing. Next to the
Commander in the photo, stood an attractive human woman with
a bright smile and long brown hair. T'Pol recalled from
Trip's file that he was not mated, but she was also aware
that humans participated in something called 'dating' which
often, but not always, lead to mating. With the frequency of
failed datings, it seemed a most inefficient way to mate,
and humans in general she had learned had a dangerous
predilection towards failed matings, or divorce, as they
called it. The word had no analog in the Vulcan language.

Trained in all manner of sciences, she knew that the
biological effects of alcohol could cause blackouts, coma,
even death in humans. Just then, she heard a loud guttural
noise come from the darkened bedroom where Tucker had gone.
Again the noise was repeated rhythmically, and seemed to
match the pace of breathing.

Just to be safe, she moved tentatively towards the bedroom
door and froze at its threshold. Just inside, the single
bedroom was shrouded in darkness, save the digital
chronometer on the far side. She moved in closer, still not
daring to breach her professional distance and enter the
room. It would be inappropriate, she thought. But she must
ascertain that the Commander was not in danger.

"Commander, are you well?" she asked. There was no answer.

An unfamiliar scent attacked her nostrils. The Commander was
still loudly snoring on a queen sized bed in the center of
the room, its wooden headboard flush with the wall opposite
her. His jeans were bunched in a pile along with socks,
shoes and a white t-shirt on the edge of the bed.

From her sentry at the door's edge, two distinct scents were
apparent. There was the familiar, somewhat bewildering scent
of a man, and the other—the putrid, even agitating scent of
a female human. Though T'Pol's olfactory glands were highly
sensitive, she did not normally find human women to be so
offensive, at least none of those she worked with daily.

She had always assumed the Commander's pleasant fragrance
was some deodorizing agent that he used, and while she
quietly thanked him for it, she hadn't thought it could have
been his naturally. His smell was deliciously aromatic,
softly mild as it pricked up from the various areas of the
room, such as the bed. The woman's scent, too, lingered from
the bed. She knew what that meant, but why should she care?
The smell stifled away Trip's, and T'Pol frowned at the
darkness.

Tucker stirred and rolled nearer to the side by which T'Pol
stood, throwing his arm over a section of the bed as if
expecting to find something there. He grunted and stirred
some more, and T'Pol suddenly became self conscious of her
invasion of his privacy. She had ascertained his safety and
it was time to leave. It was time to leave several minutes
ago, she rebuked herself. She turned to leave him, when her
eyes fell on a crumbled pall of paper on the otherwise
immaculate countertop. Curious, she thought. Her curiosity
had already betrayed her senses once, but she calmly strode
to the counter and unfolded the ball. She normally would
have not committed any such invasion of privacy, but it was
almost as if she sensed something from it.

She found lettering on the paper, and realized all too late
the privacy of the thing she had stumbled upon. Her lips
hung open and her hand fell to the counter, dropping the
note. She had intruded on the most private of domains, and
however unwitting, her wayward curiosity was unfounded,
unadvised, and had now lead her to an embarrassing transgression.

Combating the lump in her throat, she took a shallow breath.
Another snore escaped the bedroom and she turned and looked
on it for an interminable moment, digesting the letter's
meaning, its poison. No Vulcan ever separated from its mate
save by accidental death or extreme circumstances – yet his
behavior tonight was in reaction to such a loss. How should
I judge his actions after he has been rejected by his mate?
A bonded Vulcan would likely not survive the event. She
looked down to find her fingers frozen where they had held
the note, fossilized into place by the experience of. . . 
empathy. She walked out of his apartment, intent to forgive
his trespass.

Forgiving her own would take time.
---

to be continued in Twist of Fate: Private Enterprise