The Destroyer

Chapter 7

He wasn't sure how long he had stood there, staring out the viewport but not really seeing anything, when the door annunciator chimed. Jon didn't bother speaking as he glared at his reflection, mostly because he didn't want to do what he was about to do. It felt like another betrayal, even though it was entirely necessary.

"Reporting as ordered, sir," Malcolm Reed stated as he and Hess filed in. Archer slowly turned to face them, his face set in a dark frown. Both of the lieutenants wore knowing expressions as they waited for him to speak, evidently realizing what was about to happen, and Jon gave thanks for that. It was always best to deal with professionals, Jon mused.

"Admiral Forrest has authorized me to promote both of you to the rank of lieutenant commander," he said without preamble. A conflicted expression crossed Hess' face, and Archer found that he completely understood. Receiving a promotion was supposed to be a proud moment based entirely upon one's merit and skill, not one brought about by the loss of a superior officer. "As you are senior," Jon continued, directing his comments to Reed, "you'll serve as my first officer until we reach Earth."

"Aye, sir," Reed said. He and Hess exchanged a grim look that was devoid of the usual congratulatory emotion.

"We can arrange a promotion ceremony around your schedules," Jon began.

"With all due respect, sir," Hess interjected, her tone solemn, "I can go without one." She glowered at the floor. "Don't really feel like celebrating right now."

"Agreed." Malcolm muttered. He looked angry, sick and shocked all at once. Abruptly, Jon remembered the unlikely friendship that had sprung up between Trip and the armoury officer. As unlikely as my friendship with Trip, or Trip's friendship with T'Pol, he reflected darkly.

"That's up to the two of you," he decided. "I'll publish the orders on the shipwide web nonetheless."

"Captain?" Hess spoke hesitantly, and Jon gave her a nod to continue. "Should we have a memorial service?" she asked, and Archer felt another stab of pain lance through him. He glanced away so they wouldn't see his expression.

"Yes," he replied softly. "I think that's a good idea." His stomach began twisting into knots. "Malcolm-"

"I'll take care of it, sir," Reed responded to the unspoken question instantly. Jon nodded.

"All right." It was a struggle to maintain his professionalism, but Archer somehow dredged up the willpower. "This is going to hit the crew hard," he pointed out sadly. That was probably an understatement; Trip had been a popular officer, and T'Pol had earned everyone's respect numerous times in the past year. "It'll be our job to set an example, so pay special attention to what you say and do while in the presence of junior officers and enlisted personnel." The two newly promoted lieutenant commanders nodded in acknowledgment, and Jon exhaled softly. "If there's nothing else..."

"Captain?" Malcolm spoke before Archer could turn away, and Jon gave him a nod to continue. "What happens when we get to Earth?"

"I don't know," Archer replied softly. "An investigation, possibly a court martial." Hess looked aghast, and Jon forced a smile. "We'll worry about that later, though. Right now, the crew needs us and that takes priority over everything else."

As they departed from the ready room, Jon returned to the viewport. He stared at the streaks of light, hoping to find some reason in the chaos. A sense of failure pressed in on him, and he shuddered at what his father would think of him. Henry Archer's words seemed to float to his ears. There's nothing more important than loyalty, Jonny. Don't ever forget that.

"I'm sorry," Jon whispered to the darkness.

But there was no reply.

Subcommander T'Pol was miserable.

In her sixty-four years, T'Pol had never witnessed such a combination of environmental conditions that seemed solely dedicated toward inflicting misery upon a Vulcan. The continuing downpour was unrelenting, and had so thoroughly soaked into her clothes that she seriously doubted any part of her body was still dry. As a native of a desert world, she was accustomed to cold nights, but the rain and the wind had conspired to lower her internal body temperature to the point that it was all she could do to keep from shivering. And the darkness? The almost total cloud cover had turned what should have been a fairly bright planet into an abyss of complete shadow.

Not for the first time, she was grateful for Commander Tucker's presence. While he too was cold and wet, the commander had displayed an ability to deal with the combination of factors that far surpassed hers. She supposed that it was to be expected; Tucker had grown up in a climate where rainstorms of this nature were commonplace, after all, and she hadn't seen rain until after she was twenty.

As the lightning crawled across the sky, T'Pol could just make out the commander's disbelieving expression as he stared at his communicator. Based on her observations of him in the past, it seemed logical to presume that he was struggling with the realization that Captain Archer had abandoned the search for them. Such a struggle would likely be difficult for Mister Tucker, given his close relationship with the captain and his strong sense of loyalty. She realized that she would have to adjust how she interacted with him while he adapted to their new situation.

"Commander," she said, in an effort to get Tucker moving again. They could not risk staying here for very long; the chance of one of them getting sick grew with every second they spent exposed to the elements, and now it seemed probable that their mission had changed from contacting Enterprise to simply evasion and survival. When the engineer did not react, T'Pol decided to gamble. "Charles," she said softly, and he looked up at her, eyes wide at the personalization of her comment. "We have to go," T'Pol reminded him, and the commander nodded. He returned the communicator to his pocket, then gestured toward the building with the antenna array.

"Think we should still go in?" he wondered. It wasn't the question that he wanted to ask, and T'Pol knew it.

"Yes," she said simply. There was, after all, still a chance that Enterprise was in-system and could detect an emergency signal. Once again, Tucker nodded before reaching for her hand. T'Pol allowed him to take it, even though it wasn't entirely necessary for such a short distance. Although Vulcans were generally uncomfortable with so much tactile contact, she had observed that humans in general derived a great deal of comfort from such contact, and this week had been nothing but a series of shocks to someone untrained in these sorts of situation. It seemed likely that the commander needed the physical contact.

Or so she told herself.

They covered the short distance to the entrance of the building, and Tucker spent a moment trying to puzzle out the locking mechanism. T'Pol let him do so, hoping that the task would give him something to focus on other than the fact that they were probably stranded on a pre-warp planet that had already demonstrated its aggressive nature. The cold rain continued to fall from the night sky, drenching them even further, and T'Pol felt herself shivering as she hugged her arms around her chest to conserve body heat. Tucker gave her a quick glance, and she could see the frown on his face. Before she could ask him about it, he drew his phase pistol, aimed it at the lock, and fired a single shot. The beam sliced easily through the metal, and he pushed the door open.

Inside, it was blessedly dry, but not particularly warm. T'Pol glanced around quickly, noting the unusual décor that seemed almost Terran, but not quite. A large transparent window dominated the room, and through it, she could see primitive electronics equipment that she did not immediately recognize. Two doors led from the main lobby, one of which she deduced was to either a bathroom or a closet.

"This looks like an old radio station," Tucker announced, still holding the phase pistol. He was gripping it so tight that T'Pol could see his knuckles were white. "I might be able to scavenge some parts from that thing," he continued. T'Pol nodded as she consulted her scanner.

"There is no power coming to this building," she revealed. It had been the same since they entered the city, and she remained at a loss to explain it. According to her scans, the power systems of the city were functional and undamaged, but not online. She wondered if it was a defensive measure intended to prevent hostile aircraft from seeing the city at night.

"So much for gettin' a signal out then," the commander muttered sourly as he pushed open the door that lead to the electronics room. T'Pol followed, studying the pictures and posters that were on the wall with poorly concealed interest. One in particular drew her notice, and she stepped closer to it to get a better look. From what she could tell, it was a map of the city that they were currently in, with the streets and buildings annotated by the alien writing they had seen on street signs. Lifting her scanner, she made a few minor adjustments and pressed a button. Instantly, the scanner emitted a soft beam of light that T'Pol ran slowly over the entire map.

"That's not standard issue," Tucker commented, and T'Pol gave him a quick glance. He was seated before the primitive electronic array, and disassembling it with an unfamiliar tool. His own scanner – pulled from the dropped survival pack – was whirring, but his attention was on her.

"It is a Vulcan scanner," T'Pol replied. "I modified it to appear like Starfleet standard issue one." On the screen of the device, she could see an image of the map appear. Instantly, the UT chip inside the scanner began laboring to translate the alien text. There was no indication as to how long it would take for even a rudimentary translation, so T'Pol returned the scanner to her belt.

"Dammit!" Tucker abruptly snapped. He threw his scanner down on top of the table as he glared at the electronic array in front of him. From what T'Pol could see of the array's interior, it was a chaotic mess of wiring and electron tubes, the likes of which she had not seen outside of a museum.

"Commander?" she asked, and he shot her a frustrated look.

"What happened to Charles?" he muttered sourly, and T'Pol hesitated, unsure what to say. "I can't use this crap," Tucker continued, evidently unaware of her brief pause. "It's like ... trying to construct a circuit board with stone knives and bear-skins!" His despair was so obvious, that T'Pol took a step closer.

"You cannot be blamed," she started, and he cut off with an angry glower.

"I'm the damned chief engineer," the commander retorted. "If I'd have done my job right the first time, we wouldn't be stuck on this miserable planet!" He covered his face with both hands, and T'Pol could tell that shock and exhaustion were finally beginning to overwhelm him. "Somebody on my team screwed up the maintenance of the shuttlepod," Tucker vented, "which makes this whole disaster my fault!" Lowering his hands, he gave her a sad look. "I'm sorry for gettin' you into this, Subcommander," he apologized.

"Commander." T'Pol paused for a moment, considering his state of mind and their present situation. "Charles," she resumed. Her use of his given name caused him to smile slightly, and she blamed the interesting sensations that tightened her stomach on lack of meditation. "You are an exceptional engineer," T'Pol stated calmly, "even by Vulcan standards." His expression faltered slightly, and she recognized the look as the one he wore when he was attempting to determine if she had complimented or insulted him. "The fault lies with the engineer who was negligent in their duties, not with you."

"I'm sorry," he repeated as he rubbed his eyes. "I'm just so damned tired right now, I can't think straight." She nodded slightly in understanding; with the adrenaline wearing off, their recent cross-country exertions were beginning to take their toll.

"We should find a location in the city to hide," T'Pol decided. As the commander nodded and began gathering his gear, she walked through the doorway that led back to the main lobby. The door leading to the street was still cracked, and she could hear the boom of thunder. Another sound caught her attention, and she tensed in concern.

Seconds later, the door burst open.

T'Pol was lunging toward the armed native even before he had registered her appearance, and caught his arm as he tried to point his weapon at her. Surprise was on his face as he struggled in vain against her superior strength, and, had she been human, T'Pol would have smiled at the sudden flare of fear that followed the surprise. Using less than a fraction of the pressure she would normally use, she applied the to'tsu'k'hy. He crumpled without a sound, and she exhaled a sigh of relief when she saw that he was still alive.

A deafening roar shattered the sudden silence, even as a crushing impact slammed into her shoulder, spinning her around and sending her to the ground. Pain screamed through her body, and she cried out instinctively. She struggled against the urge to collapse into unconsciousness, as a wild cacophony of sound and light assaulted her senses. Another boom sounded, followed by the sound of a phase pistol being fired and shattering glass. A sharp, acrid stench caused her to cough, and her vision swam. Darkness beckoned.

"T'Pol!" Commander Tucker's voice seemed to come from an impossibly vast distance, even though she could see his face looming before hers. "Oh, God," the engineer wailed, his expression a mixture of horror and anger. The smell of blood – her blood, she realized – was mildly concerning.

"I've been shot," she declared with some surprise. This would complicate things somewhat, the rational part of her mind observed. As the experienced field operative, her expertise would be essential if they were to survive and evade capture. She tried to push herself upright from the floor, but agony burned through her body, robbing her of control.

Mercifully, she lost consciousness.

Adrenaline and fear were coursing through his body.

As he knelt over the unmoving subcommander, Trip Tucker found himself struggling with a hysterical urge to panic. He was an engineer, dammit, not a medic! His breath caught at the weakness of her pulse but common sense and Phlox's cross-training lessons kicked in. Vulcan hearts aren't in the same place as human hearts, Trip reminded himself. He exhaled with relief when he found the Vulcan pulse-point, and sent up a silent 'thank you' to Denobulan physicians everywhere.

Ripping open his survival pack, he quickly located and extracted the emergency first aid kit. It was rudimentary, but allowed him to stop the bleeding. Once satisfied that T'Pol wasn't going to die of blood loss or that anything important had been hit, Trip took in their surroundings with rapidly deteriorating hopes.

The man he had shot was dead, but the native that T'Pol had pinched was still breathing. Tucker didn't know how long the man would remain unconscious, and decided that he didn't want to stick around to find out. He was just about to grab the native and drag him to what looked like a closet when he realized that both men were wearing identical triangle symbols on their clothes. Trip gave the men's uniforms a closer look: gunbelt, flashlight, handcuffs.

"Oh, God," Tucker moaned. "They're cops..." Suddenly, getting away from this place seemed like an even better idea.

Once he dragged the unconscious man away from the main door, Trip spent another couple seconds figuring out how to use the handcuffs before securing the native to the desk. After a moment of thought, Tucker stripped the man of his gunbelt, and crammed it into his survival pack; he did the same with the dead native, even though it was hard to even look at the man.

The guns themselves were revolvers, with rounds that looked to be six or seven millimeters in diameter. Trip stuffed both of them into his pocket before tying the two survival packs together, and strapping them to his back. T'Pol turned out to be heavier than she looked, although Trip wasn't sure if it was because he was already exhausted, or her stronger bones were heavier, or some combination of the two. With the unconscious Vulcan nestled in his arms, he stepped out into the darkness and the rain.

Almost at once, he drew up short and stared at the four-wheeled ground vehicle parked outside the building. Like the trike, it was just familiar enough in appearance to recognizable as a car, while harboring a completely alien look. Instead of the box shape that Trip was accustomed to seeing on a car, this vehicle had something of a diamond-shape, with two wheels on either side of the body and one at both the front and back. The doors were of a gull wing design, and a single pulsing green light was on the very top of the vehicle. For less than a second, Trip considered his options, before shrugging and maneuvering T'Pol into the vehicle.

Steering the vehicle turned out to be fairly easy. Instead of the differential steering system that had been on the trike, the groundcar had a joystick-like device that controlled the directional systems. Finding the button to turn off the flashing strobe light was a little more difficult; in the process of looking for it, though, Trip found the equivalent of the blinkers as well as the windshield wiper controls.

He never considered trying to leave the city as he accelerated away from the building. The roads had been too heavily guarded for him to get a car out undetected, and Trip doubted that he could get far on foot anyway with T'Pol unconscious and wounded. That left hiding someplace inside the city until he and T'Pol could figure out their next move; she would have an idea, he told himself. She always had an idea.

For nearly thirty minutes, he cruised through the streets of the oddly silent city. Signs of heavy damage were everywhere, reminding him of images of Old Europe after the Second or Third World Wars. Other vehicles could be seen on the streets as well, though, including several police cruisers like the one he was driving. His heart tried to pound its way out of his chest each time he saw one of those vehicles, and he very nearly had a stroke when the driver of one gave him a wave before turning down a different street.

Trip finally found what he was looking for near the outskirts of the city. It was a rundown building that seemed almost exactly like the historically preserved gas station near his parent's house. Based on the level of rust and grime on the windows, this location hadn't been used in years. After struggling with the garage door – he ultimately had to use the phase pistol on the lock – Trip backed the groundcar into cover and pulled the door down to hide their presence. For a little while, they were safe.

His hands started shaking the moment that the door was shut, and Trip balled them together in tight fists. T'Pol needed him, dammit, and he couldn't fall apart now. Especially not now.

He had already removed T'Pol's shirt and was working on extracting the bullet from the meaty part of her upper shoulder when the Vulcan stirred. Her eyes snapped open, and Trip could see her take in her general state of undress and his close proximity instantly. He didn't say anything to her, and hoped that the small penlight in his mouth and the whirring medical scanner balanced next to her head was enough explanation.

"Commander?" the Vulcan asked, wincing slightly as he shifted the extractor tool that was currently gripping the bullet under her skin.

"Don't move," Trip told her ... or rather tried to tell her. With the penlight in his mouth, it came out more like "Dough Woove," along with an embarrassing amount of saliva. She seemed to understand, and only flinched twice as he worked the slug free. "Sorry," he muttered once the bullet was free. She gave him a slight nod as she applied pressure to the wound with the bandage he had given her.

"Where are we?" T'Pol asked. Her eyes were taking in her surroundings with that analytical precision of hers that he loved so much. The groundcar received extra attention, and even earned a slight eyebrow raise.

"A garage on the outskirts of the city," Trip revealed. He slumped back into the driver's seat, so utterly exhausted that he doubted he could move, even to attend to his very full bladder or to strip off his sodden clothes. "It was rundown and abandoned, so I gambled we'd be safe here for a little while."

"And this vehicle?"

"Belonged to those two cops who jumped us at the radio station." At her quirked eyebrow, he explained his theory about the two men being police officers. "If they're anything like the cops on Earth," Trip finished, "they're gonna be lookin' for us since I killed the one." His hands started to shake again, and Tucker tried to hide the trembles from T'Pol's keen eyes.

"I suspect that is a universal desire among law enforcement organizations throughout the galaxy," she stated. Giving him a questioning look, T'Pol continued. "You were unable to reestablish contact with Enterprise." It was more a statement than a question, but Trip answered anyway.

"Yeah," he said sullenly. "There's no carrier signal of any kind up there. No commsat, no shuttlepod beacon, no Enterprise, nothin'." He gave the Vulcan a sidelong glance. "We're on our own."

"Indeed." There was no hint as to what she was thinking, but her lips were pressed together tightly and her eyes scrunched up fractionally. It was the expression she always wore when she was deep in thought, and, for some reason, it made Trip feel a great deal better.

"What do we do now?" Tucker asked, not even bothering to hide his worry. An eyebrow raised, T'Pol turned slightly to meet his gaze.

"We survive," she said simply. Outside, the rain continued to fall.

The rain was ice cold as it trickled down his back.

Jon stood silently before the two closed caskets, his expression as bleak as the sky overhead, and tried to pay attention to the service. The priest droned on, his words jumbled nonsense that didn't make any sense. Archer blinked, and suddenly, Phlox was the one giving the last rites. Lightning crawled across the sky, as if in response to the doctor's words, and rain fell in heavy sheets, blocking out Jon's view of the caskets. He opened his mouth to speak...

...and was suddenly in decon. The hum echoed loudly in his ears, and the intensity of the blue lights was almost painful. Raising a hand to shield his eyes, Jon realized that he was wearing his Starfleet uniform.

And it was bloody.

He tried wiping the crimson off of the uniform's sleeves, but the stain seemed to grow with each passing second. His boots were suddenly soaked, and Jon could feel the blood rising up his legs. Desperately, he tried to reach the door release, but found only smooth metal in its place. The blood was past his knees now, and still climbing. Glancing around, he froze at sight of the two people standing across decon, staring at him.

Trip and T'Pol were exactly like he last saw them, with the subcommander wearing her white bodysuit instead of the usual brown one, and Trip in the desert duty uniform. Neither spoke as they stared at him, and Jon screamed for help but no sound emerged from his mouth. The blood was now above his waist, and he again tried to implore his two senior officers to help him. Somehow, they seemed immune to the rising tide of crimson.

Suddenly, the blue lights of decon flashed brightly, and, to Jon's horror, the skin on the faces of his two friends began to burn. Apart from a single sad look that they shared, the two barely reacted as muscle and sinew and bone was slowly incinerated. Archer tried to look away, but his body ignored him. The blood climbed above his chest, and he could smell the stench of seared flesh. I'm sorry! he tried to shout as Trip and T'Pol dissolved away into dust, but the blood choked him as it climbed over his chin. He could taste it now, sharp and bitter and reeking of pain.

It tasted like death.

With a gasp, Jon jerked awake. His heart was racing, and he buried his face in his hands to keep himself from screaming. The smell of coffee was thick, and Archer glowered at the large spill that now covered a significant portion of his desk's surface. It was cold, of course, but had still made quite a mess, and Jon wondered what part of his subconscious had linked the spilled coffee to the dream he had just woken from.

On the monitor of Archer's systerm, a flashing message from the Science department drew his attention from mopping up the spill. For a long moment, he hesitated, unwilling to look at this latest analysis of the planetary situation they had left behind. Three hours had passed since they departed the system where Trip and T'Pol had died – or rather, had likely died – and every department aboard the ship had been studying the data in an attempt to understand what exactly Enterprise had done wrong.

So far, they hadn't found anything.

It was frustrating that, even by those impossible Vulcan standards, they didn't do anything wrong. Every one of the new policies put into place by Starfleet Command following the Paraagan colony disaster had been obeyed to the letter. And yet, two integral members of the crew had still been lost in what was shaping up to be a tragic accident.

Porthos whined from where he watched Jon, and the captain gave the beagle a sad look. As if picking up on Archer's emotions, the dog had seemed almost disconsolate or heart-broken. Given how affectionate the beagle had been to Trip or how fascinated by T'Pol, Jon found himself wondering if the dog could comprehend the loss.

"I need some sleep," Archer growled to himself as he pushed himself away from the desk. Today was going to be a tough one, between the memorial service for Trip and T'Pol and the subspace debriefing he was to give to the senior officers of Starfleet Command. He had to be sharp, and nightmares like the one that had just left him in a cold sweat wouldn't do anyone any good. Dressing quickly, he headed for the door.

"Ah, Captain," the doctor said in greeting as Jon entered sickbay. "How can I help you?"

"I can't sleep," Archer replied, before suddenly sighing. "No, that's not right. I can sleep, but the dreams...."

"Entirely understandable," Phlox said in commisseration. His normally jovial features were pinched in sadness. "You've lost two very good friends, and grief is a natural-"

"I don't need a lecture, dammit!" Jon snapped before he could stop himself. Suddenly angry at himself, his shoulders fell and he slumped back against one of the biobeds. "I left them behind," he muttered angrily, barely aware of the look of condolence that the doctor gave him. "If it had been me down there, they wouldn't have left."

"Captain," Phlox began, but Jon didn't notice, so lost in the miasma of self-disgust.

"They were counting on me to get them back," he said. "And I failed them." His anger grew, and he found himself speaking without thinking. "I promised Trip's parents to keep an eye on him when we shipped out, and now I've got to tell them that I sent him to die."

"We don't know that they're dead, Captain," the doctor pointed out, but Jon didn't hear him.