The Destroyer

Chapter 6

As he crouched next to the two natives whom he had stunned earlier, Malcolm dug his Starfleet uniform out of the dirt and waited for Travis to make his appearance. For a moment, he considered stripping off the uniform he was wearing before deciding against doing so; it would take too long, he reasoned, even as he wondered what sort of story the unconscious natives would tell when they woke up. His communicator chirped, informing him that Travis was on approach, and Reed prepared himself for a sprint. The uneasy sensation of being watched began bothering him, and he glanced around in an attempt to find any observers. He found no one.

Seconds later, Travis stepped into view – or rather, half of him did – and gestured to Reed. Still unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched, Malcolm leaped up and ran toward the cloaked ship.

"Get us back to Enterprise," Malcolm ordered as he boarded it. He paused for a moment as he once again tried to see anyone watching him, but once again, saw no one. "Those bodies weren't Trip and T'Pol," he grinned.

Seconds later, they were racing home.

The wind on her face was quite pleasant.

Perched in the seat of the local vehicle that they had acquired – Mister Tucker had gleefully called it a motorized trike when they discovered it – Subcommander T'Pol found herself momentarily distracted by the soothing sensation of warm air caressing her face. By her calculations, they were cruising away from the crash site at approximately seventy kilometers an hour, and, as he had promised he wouldn't, the commander had not exceeded that speed in the hour since they had climbed onto the vehicle.

The local vehicle was something of a curiosity and reminded T'Pol that, despite the amazing similarities in appearance, they weren't on Earth. Of a three-wheeled design, it was – according to Mister Tucker – completely backwards. Two narrow wheels were at the front of the vehicle, with a larger, wider tire at the rear. The two occupants of this vehicle sat side-by-side, with the pilot on the right side. An internal combustion engine powered the craft, emitting a foul stench in the process that she barely managed to ignore, and it was maneuvered using a pair of levers instead of the more familiar steering system of a cycle. Tucker had identified this system as similar to the differential steering system used on certain tracked vehicles or large utility tractors, and as he had at least a passing familiarity with their use, T'Pol agreed to allow him to "drive."

That it gave him something to focus on other than the young man that he had inadvertently slain was an added bonus.

The vehicle – T'Pol refused to call it a 'trike' – had clearly belonged to the two soldiers that they had encountered, and had been parked less than ten meters from the site of the unfortunate incident. Based on the location and their gear, T'Pol had theorized that the two were motorized scouts who were the vanguard of a much larger force. Given the number of military vehicles that they had passed heading toward the crash site, this presumption seemed to be borne out.

Fortunately, none of the other motorists seemed curious as to why a single vehicle was heading in the opposite direction.

"I think we're runnin' low on gas!" Tucker shouted over the sound of the vehicle's engine. Frowning slightly, T'Pol glanced at the rudimentary console of the vehicle as he pointed to one of the dials. "I'm pretty sure this is the fuel gauge," he explained loudly. He steered the craft off of the central highway, and onto the rocky yet surprisingly wooded terrain. T'Pol barely restrained herself from coughing at the plumes of dirt that were kicked up by the vehicle.

The vehicle's engine died fitfully nearly twenty minutes later, and they coasted to a gradual stop under a cluster of trees. Though they were still very far from their target, the vehicle had served its purpose, and T'Pol was grateful that it had lasted as long as it did. With no sign of communications equipment on the small vehicle when they discovered it, she had proposed that they head toward the nearest population center with the intent of acquiring and using a local radio to contact Enterprise. There was never any real consideration about ambushing other members of the military force for a radio; from her observation of him, T'Pol knew that Commander Tucker was taking the death of the young man he had accidentally slain quite hard, and the idea of murdering others simply for their equipment was barbaric.

They weren't Klingons after all.

"Yeah," Commander Tucker said several minutes later as he leaned back from examining the engine of their stolen vehicle. "It's definitely outta gas."

"We are approximately sixty kilometers from our destination," T'Pol informed him and he grimaced.

"That's gonna be a tough hike in a week," he commented while gesturing to the rough terrain. "Especially in a place like this and without much water."

"A week?" T'Pol quirked an eyebrow as she spoke.

"Standing order thirty-six," Tucker replied, as if that explained everything. T'Pol raised an eyebrow.

"I am not aware of any such order," she stated, and the commander gave her a sheepish grin.

"I suppose you probably wouldn't be," he stated before shrugging. "It's an unofficial Starfleet regulation for missing crewmembers who might have survived. Enterprise will stay in-system for a week before officially declaring us missing, believed dead."

"Fascinating." T'Pol had never even heard a hint of such a regulation before, and wondered if the Vulcan High Command knew of it. It was, after all, nearly identical to a Vulcan policy for stranded or missing crewmembers. "There are thirty-five other standing orders?" she asked, and Tucker shook his head.

"Not really," he replied. "Thirty-six comes from the year that it became an unofficial-official reg. Twenty-one thirty-six."

"I see." And, for once, she did understand the methodology behind a human decision that, at first glance, seemed completely illogical. "That would be in regards to the UES Pioneer incident?" she queried. Commander Tucker's wide-eyed surprise at her knowledge of human history was oddly gratifying.

"Yeah." He smiled suddenly. "I remember watching the news reports about it," he admitted. "Made me wanna join UESPA." A chuckle followed this. "I tried to sign up the next day, even though I was just sixteen." He gave her a sidelong glance. "And how old were you in twenty-one thirty-six?" he asked.

"Older than sixteen," T'Pol replied smoothly, causing Tucker to laugh out loud. It was an oddly pleasing sound, and something that she had missed in recent weeks.

Abruptly, the commander sobered, and reached for his survival pack. "We should probably get moving," Tucker suggested.

It was slow going, especially with their need for caution. Knowing that the natives had aircraft affected their route, and forced them to stick to the scattered flora for concealment. All of the trees were coniferous, and looked remarkably similar to those of western North America. Displaying remarkable woodscraft for a warp engineer, Commander Tucker kept a steady but constant pace that T'Pol had to admire. He consulted the magnetic compass that was part of his survival pack when appropriate, and pointed out several unusual-looking avians. Two hours after they abandoned the ground vehicle, T'Pol gave up trying to restrain her curiosity and asked him about the unexpected (but quite welcome) skills.

"Summers with my granddad before he died," Tucker stated with a fond smile. "He loved takin' me on hikin' or huntin' trips." He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as if temporarily lost in memory. "He woulda loved this place," the engineer smiled. "It's like a more pristine version of the Gila Wilderness in New Mexico."

"You hunted?" T'Pol asked, unable to entirely hide her distaste at the idea. Tucker nodded.

"Deer, mostly," he replied, before giving her an amused look. "With a camera, Subcommander. Deer are an endangered species on Earth. Have been since after the Third World War." He squinted and studied the clouds. "And that looks like rain," Tucker said. "We better find high ground just in case there's a flash flood."

He was right once more, and T'Pol found herself revising her mental estimate of the commander upward again when he found them a sheltered location to wait out the storm. It was several meters off the ground and little more than a horizontal depression in the side of one of the large canyons that seemed to ring the entire region, but she doubted that she would have found it before the rain began falling. With a touch of chagrin, she realized her less than positive opinion of his survival ability had been based on faulty information; his misadventure in the desert with Captain Archer had nearly convinced her that he had little to no experience outside of civilization, but that was very obviously not the case. Even Phlox's report about his broken ribs should have been enough to suggest that it was an anomaly, but her own biases had blinded her. It was disconcerting to be so out of her depth, and T'Pol found herself desperately missing her tea and meditation candles.

The rain came, slowly at first, as if the heavens were hesitant about the coming precipitation, but with ever-increasing intensity until it fell in heavy sheets that obscured all vision. Thunder boomed out of the darkened sky with distressing frequency, and the skyline lit up with fierce flashes of lightning. The howl of wind made it difficult to hear anything. It was a primal display of the awesome power of nature, and T'Pol found that she could not look away.

She wasn't sure when she had dozed off, but the moment that Sillick lunged out of the darkness toward her, hands twisted in sinister-looking claws, T'Pol jolted awake. Her heart was beating wildly, and her breath came in rapid gasps. Glancing around, she realized that Tucker had somehow rearranged their bodies while she slept so his back was to the still raging storm and she was protected from the bulk of the inclement weather. Stretched out in the tiny hollow, they were almost chest to chest, and even through his clothes, the warmth of his body heat was remarkable.

"You okay?" he asked, and T'Pol fought for complete control. Tucker's face was close to hers, and she recognized that fear from the all too familiar nightmare wasn't the only thing making her heart beat faster.

"I'm fine," she replied. Even to her own ears, she didn't sound convincing.

"You were havin' a nightmare," the commander pressed, and she could hear his concern. It was touching that he cared, and gave her hope that, whatever his reasons for avoiding her in recent weeks, their friendship could still be salvaged. She didn't want to lose him as a friend. "I didn't know Vulcans had nightmares," Tucker said softly.

"Significant emotional trauma is taxing, even to Vulcans," T'Pol admitted. For some reason, she found that she was unwilling to tell him more, to explain to him that she was still recovering from the trauma of both Tolaris' forced mind meld and Sillick's torture, or that she may never fully recover from either.

"I can't help but to think about that kid I killed," the commander whispered, his voice thick with emotion. In the darkness, T'Pol could not see the engineer's face, but she could easily envision the expression that he was wearing. "I've got a cousin that age," he continued, self-disgust and bitterness in his voice. "And he's just a stupid kid with the whole universe ahead of him. That's no age to die."

"I grieve with thee," she told him solemnly, even as she kept a firm grip on her own emotions. She could not let herself experience guilt, not now and especially not with her own past. If she closed her eyes, T'Pol knew that she could still hear the screams of the wounded and the dying, and the wails of those injured by her mistake still haunted her when her control slipped. Suppression of emotion was the only solution; there were no Fullara Masters on this planet. A long moment passed in silence, broken only by the sharp crack of distant thunder. T'Pol tried not to think about the relative intimacy of their respective positions, no matter how comfortable, and was mostly successful.

"Picked up a signal from Enterprise," the commander said, his tone making her wonder if he had been thinking about how to reveal this. T'Pol glanced up at his face, even though she could barely see it. "We've got about four days to find a way to get in touch with 'em before we're classified as missing, believed dead."

"Standing order thirty-six," she commented, and felt him nod.

"Standing order thirty-six," Tucker repeated. He didn't sound hopeful.

Outside, thunder boomed as if mocking them.

His muscles were howling with protest, but Trip Tucker forced himself to ignore them.

For nearly four days, he had set a grueling pace, knowing that T'Pol would be able to keep up without any difficulty. They rarely spoke during the long hours of hiking and hugging the wood line, and Trip knew that the Vulcan subcommander was watching him discreetly. Part of him was glad that she cared enough to recognize that he was still struggling with guilt over the accidental death of that local, but a larger part argued that, as the first officer, it was her job to keep an eye on him. Her concern didn't really mean anything other than she was a very good officer.

Trip's mood had soured considerably in the days after their awkward conversation in that cave. It had been a surreal experience, sleeping alongside her and feeling her much higher body heat. He was no stranger to s*x or women, but as the voluptuous Vulcan had shifted in her sleep and snuggled – snuggled! – closer to him, he had found his mind fixated on how she smelled, or how wonderful her curves felt pressed up against him, or what kind of sounds she made as she slept. The desire to kiss her had nearly undone him, and he was incredibly glad that she hadn't been conscious at the time; his body's reaction to the nearness of her would have been impossible to miss.

Somehow, she remained unaware of the effect that she had on him, and, for that, Trip was grateful. It was already bad enough knowing that she and Archer were together; he could only imagine just how difficult it would be to look either of them in the eye if T'Pol learned that he couldn't control certain parts of his anatomy around her. God, he groused to himself, this is worse than high school. At least then, he hadn't hated his best friend for getting the girl.

Thunder boomed out of the darkening sky, and Tucker sighed. Like clockwork, fierce rainstorms had rolled in almost the very minute that the sun sank below the horizon and forced them to seek shelter from the elements. This close to their destination, though, and with very little time remaining, they couldn't risk hiding from the storm.

"Commander." The Vulcan's unexpected voice caused him to jump slightly before glancing in her direction. She was several meters to the right, crouched behind an unusual-looking rock and looking down at something. Keeping low, he joined her and felt his breath catch at the sight before him.

A large city stretched out on the mesa below this slight drop. For a moment, Trip forgot that he wasn't on Earth as he took in the layout of the city. It reminded him of Atlanta for some reason, although it was much smaller and the Georgia city definitely wasn't constructed atop an elevated slab of land. Dozens of roads and highways spread out from the city, making it appear from this angle almost like a spiderweb.

"The roads appear to be guarded," T'Pol pointed out as she studied the city through her small binoculars. She lowered the binos, a subtle frown on her face. Though he did not know her quite as well as he would have like – not as well as Archer, he reflected sourly – Trip recognized the expression as her 'I've seen/heard/detected something that I don't understand and I don't like it.'

"What is it?" he asked, and she gave him a quick, sidelong glance.

"Have you noticed," the Vulcan subcommander asked, "that for a city this size, it is remarkably quiet?" Trip blinked in surprise, before focusing once more on the mesa-city. He hadn't noticed the silence until now, but once T'Pol pointed it out, it was nearly impossible to ignore. Movement could be seen in the streets, but an ominous silence seemed to be draped over the entire mesa. He swallowed as he tried to figure out what it could mean. Before he could comment, his communicator vibrated, and he sighed. It was that time again, and he pulled it from his trouser pocket and flipped it open.

"This is Enterprise to landing party," came Hoshi's voice. "Departure in H minus three. Emergency frequencies are being monitored." It was the same message that had been broadcast every hour on the hour for over four days. The only thing different was the declining number for the departure time. According to Trip's calculations, the countdown had begun the moment the shuttlepod crashed instead of when they lost contact with Enterprise, prompting him to suspect that Starfleet Command had put its foot down. "This message will repeat in one hour," the recording of Hoshi's voice finished. Trip looked at T'Pol.

"Three hours," he repeated grimly. She made no comment as she continued to study the city with the binoculars. "How far away is that city?" Trip asked.

"Twenty-one point two three two kilometers," the Vulcan replied after consulting the laser rangefinder integrated onto the binos. Tucker grunted as he glanced at the rapidly darkening sky. Twenty-one kilometers wouldn't normally be that hard to cover in three hours, but in the rain and in the dark? And with a night-blind Vulcan in tow? As if reading his mind, T'Pol spoke. "Commander, in the event that we become separated-"

"I'll come lookin' for you," Trip interrupted. The subcommander's lips tightened fractionally, and Tucker gave her a smirk. "Come on, T'Pol. You've known me for over a year now," he pointed out. "What are the chances that I'm gonna leave you behind?"

"I am merely attempting to maximize our chances for survival," the Vulcan retorted, a shade more forcefully than necessary, and Trip's smile grew wider. Fat raindrops began falling from the sky, and Tucker flinched at the coldness of the water when they splashed upon his skin.

"Well, I'm not leavin' you behind," Trip stated definitively. "End of discussion." Overhead, thunder boomed, as if in agreement with him, and Tucker grinned broadly. "See?" he asked. "Even God agrees." If she had been human, the expression on T'Pol's face would have been called disgruntled. She glanced away, muttering something softly in Vulcan that Trip didn't understand. He did recognize his name and the word human, which made him wonder what she had said. Instead of asking, though, he stood and began making his way toward the footpath that would lead to down to the scrub below.

Getting to the city turned out to be a nightmare. The rain pounded the ground with angry force, turning the footing treacherous, and the brightness of the lightning that cracked the sky every few seconds thoroughly ruined Trip's night vision. He didn't know how many times he fell, and the sense of urgency that he'd felt earlier slowly drained away as fatigue dulled his senses and slowed his pace.

If he had it bad, T'Pol had it ten times worse. Whenever he caught sight of her face, Trip could see that her eyes were as wide as she could make them as she struggled to see in the darkness. Rain plastered her hair to her skull, and he could see that she was shivering nonstop; too late, he remembered that she was from a desert planet and had complained – though she always insisted that it wasn't complaining – about the temperature of Enterprise being too low. After the fourth time she fell into a large puddle that Trip could easily make out, he abandoned propriety and grabbed her hand so he could lead her more easily. That she was quick to let him take the lead in such a way said volumes about her state of mind.

He lost track of how long they struggled against the inclement weather, and it became a task to simply put one foot in front of the other. According to Starfleet standards, the survival pack that he was carrying weighed 13.5 kilograms, but in the slow plod toward the city, he misplaced the decimal point and didn't think that T'Pol would let him go back to look for it. When the bluish-white beam of a spotlight washed across the ground in front of him, it took ten incredibly long seconds for his exhausted brain to identify what it was that he had just seen. T'Pol, he realized, had her head down, evidently focusing upon the ground directly in front of her and relying entirely upon his superior night vision.

For some reason, that sent a surge of pride through him.

"Spotlight," Trip whispered, and her head came up. She looked as miserable as he felt, but offered no word of complaint as she blinked rapidly and squinted. "Looks like seven ... no, eight guards to our right," he reported. "They're not payin' a lot of attention to anything but keepin' out of the rain."

"How far?" the Vulcan asked through chattering teeth.

"Twenty meters?" he guessed. "If we can keep outta sight, I think we can sneak by 'em." He was still holding her hand, Trip realized, but she hadn't said anything so he didn't let go. The spotlight beam crossed their path once again, and Tucker tugged her forward, whispering urgently, "Now!"

It was less a run than a stumbling lurch, but they were just fast enough to avoid the spotlight's next sweep. Jagged flashes of lighting forked across the sky, and thunder shook the ground, covering up the loud splashes that their feet made as they half ran, half crouched up the incline and toward the vehicles that blocked entrance into the city. His breath sounded loud in his ears, and his heart was thudding so hard that Trip expected the guards to hear it, but none of them moved from their place of relative safety from the angry storm. It was the first piece of good luck that he'd seen since they crashed on this godforsaken planet, and Tucker wanted to laugh giddily as he led T'Pol through the cordon and into the city's outskirts.

They didn't stop moving until they were long past the rudimentary barricade. Leaning up against a building, Trip gasped for breath and tried to calm his racing heart. T'Pol, he noticed with no small amount of envy, was barely breathing hard; she did begin hugging herself, though, and was very obviously freezing. Once again, her eyes were as wide as possible, and she was staring at the dark streets with a sort of wary concern on her face.

"We need to find communications equipment," she said, and Trip nodded. As he started to turn away, she surprised him by reaching for his hand. It was a logical thing to do, he mused, especially since it seemed like every light in the city was out. He had to admit, though, that he rather liked the feel of her hand in his.

Using her scanner, they weaved through several alleys and side streets, pausing only long enough to get more accurate readings. Trip wasn't entirely sure what she was focusing on, but trusted her judgment as they crept through the sleeping city. Every noise that they made seemed to be too loud, or echoed in funny ways, and it started to feel like the entire city was holding its breath. Trip tried to shake the uncomfortable feeling off, but wasn't entirely successful.

"There," T'Pol said abruptly, her voice pitched so low that he had to strain to hear it. Even then, it seemed unnecessarily loud. Following the direction she indicated, Trip could see a completely unremarkable-looking building. Unfamiliar squiggles that he took to be letters were prominently displayed, and he grinned at the oddly-shaped structures on the roof of the building. They had to be antennas.

"Jackpot," he grinned as he started forward. T'Pol pulled on his hand, though, causing him to stop and give her a surprised look.

"Commander," she said grimly, her scanner still whirring. "Four hours have elapsed since the storm began." Trip felt his stomach lurch, and fumbled for the communicator.

There was no signal.

He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Seated at the desk in his ready room, Jon Archer stared incredulously at the image on the small viewer before him. As the deadline elapsed, he had ordered Hoshi to make contact with Starfleet Command in the hopes of talking them into allowing him to extend Enterprise's stay for just a little bit longer. His arguments had been rational and entirely professional; he had taken great effort to make sure that they were devoid of emotional appeals.

And still, the answer was no.

"I'm sorry, Jonathan," Admiral Forrest said. From his expression, the admiral was sorry for being the one to relate Starfleet's orders, but that didn't stop him from doing so. "Command wants you back home immediately."

"Admiral," Jon began, knowing that, if given the opportunity, he could talk Forrest into letting him stay for one more day.

"No," Forrest interrupted firmly. "Your officers have had their seven days, Jonathan, and it's time for Enterprise to come home." The admiral gave a sour look. "This couldn't have come at a worse time. We're just getting over that Paraagan disaster, and the Vulcans are screaming bloody murder."

"They could still be alive!" Archer argued, and his old friend's expression darkened slightly.

"All of your proof is circumstantial, Captain," the older man replied. "This is a direct order from Command. You are to make best speed to Earth." Forrest's eyes narrowed. "There are to be no mysterious warp fluctuations that keep you at impulse, no shortcuts that keep you in that system for another week, no emergencies that you have to attend to. Immediately means immediately, Captain. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir," Jon responded dully. It was easy to forget sometimes that Forrest had commanded a ship for years before rising to the rank of admiral; all of the tricks that Archer knew, he'd learned from the older man, and trying to fool him would feel too much like betrayal. "We'll break orbit at once, sir." Forrest nodded, once more appearing sympathetic.

"Losing people is never easy, Jon," he said sympathetically. "I'll be in touch. Forrest out." The admiral reached forward, and the screen blanked out to be instantly replaced by the UESPA Starfleet seal.

Slumping back in his desk chair, Jon felt like he was about to be sick. Ever since Malcolm had returned with news that the two bodies weren't Trip and T'Pol, Archer had been desperately praying that the two would make contact unexpectedly. They would have a wildly unlikely story to tell, involving giant slug monsters, or telepathic lizards that breathed fire, or maybe even an alien woman who had tried to seduce Trip and thus earned T'Pol's enmity. Tucker would probably be injured, but not critically so, and there was a better than fifty percent chance that so would T'Pol. Jon had even ordered the Suliban cell ship manned at all times and standing by for departure for when they received the inevitable hail from the two errant officers.

But time had run out.

Reaching for the transmit button on the comm panel was the hardest thing he had ever done, and Jon glared at the Starfleet seal as he spoke.

"Archer to Reed." The reply was instantaneous.

"Reed here, sir."

"Have Hoshi send the last transmission," Jon ordered grimly, "and then set a course for Earth, maximum warp." The long pause that followed his instructions was understandable, and Archer could easily imagine the horrified looks that the junior officers were sharing. It felt like they were abandoning Trip and T'Pol.

"Aye, sir." Reed sounded partially disgusted, which said a lot. Jon couldn't think of a single instance in which the lieutenant had spoken ill of senior officers, but the tone of his voice clearly expressed his opinion. Archer couldn't blame him, since right now, he felt the same way.

"Once we're underway," the captain continued, "I need to see you and Lieutenant Hess in my ready room."

"I'll let her know, Captain."

"Archer out." Jon released the transmit button and stood up from the desk. Anger and despair swirled within his gut as he approached the viewport. He couldn't see the planet, of course – the moon they were hiding behind blocked it out – but that didn't stop him from looking. "Stay safe, you two," he whispered, repeating the last thing he'd told them. Archer's eyes watered slightly as the moon began to slowly recede from view, and he blinked the pain back. For less than a second, he could see a sliver of the planet that had stolen his two best friends from him, and he experienced an entirely unreasonable sense of fury directed toward the uncaring world.

With a flash, Enterprise jumped to warp.