Chapter 8

Note:  It should be apparent by now that the Andorians populating my universe consist of two sexes: male and female.  This, despite the fact that many Star Trek fan fictions embrace the concept of four distinct Andorian genders.  I believe this convoluted biology originates from a Star Trek DS9 series published by Pocket Books (and thus is not actually canon).  I mention this to avoid being swamped by comments from well-meaning reviewers pointing out my ignorance.  Since Andorian reproduction plays no real role in my story's plot, feel free to imagine multiple sexes, if you wish.  I opted for simplicity.

Note:  A tip of the hat to thot, who deserves credit for the idea that the extradition treaty would not apply because T'Pol surrendered voluntarily.

 

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EIGHT

 

Enterprise, Rho Virginis, 3 April 2159

Trip paused just outside the flag bridge on Enterprise and took a moment to consider the sign above the door.  Second Fleet Command Center, it read.

Last time I was here this was the astrophysics lab, he thought.  Unbidden, a wave of nostalgia swept over him, and he recalled the many hours he'd spent there with T'Pol engaged in her arcane scientific research.  Sometimes he helped, but mostly he was just there.  There, to share in her fascination as the mysteries of the universe unfolded before the focused power of her nimble mind.  There, to share in her delight when a meticulously calculated theory was confirmed by direct observation.

Mostly he recalled how happy they'd been.

T'Pol felt his nostalgia across their bond and--in her subdued Vulcan fashion--she shared it with him.  *We will have such times again, my love.*

*Will we, T'Pol?  Will we?*  Trip's nostalgia faded, leaving in its place a more familiar but much less pleasant bitterness.  *When have we ever caught a break?  When, T'Pol?  You're in a holding cell on Andoria facing murder charges and I'm halfway to Romulus.  When has life ever done anything but kick us to the curb, then stomp all over us?*

He felt a tentative stillness in his mind, a barely perceptible hesitation, before T'Pol responded.  *Life brought you to me.  That is something, is it not?*

He grudgingly conceded her point.  *It's everything.  Even so, I damn near screwed THAT up too.*

*I am not entirely blameless in that regard,* T'Pol reminded him, her manner gently chiding.

Trip couldn't help it; he chuckled softly at the memory of all the misunderstandings and miscalculations that had plagued their early relationship.  Try as he might, he was unable to maintain his resentment in the face of her serene acceptance of life's harsh realities.  *You're right, of course.  I'm just feeling a little sorry for myself.*

*I understand, Trip.  Now if I am not mistaken, Admiral Chu is waiting for you on the flag bridge.*

*Yes ma'am.*  With a parting glance at the sign, he thumbed the door open and stepped inside, taking a moment to orient himself.

The room was lined on all four sides with data consoles manned by officers and crewmen.  Some looked up at his entrance, but most maintained a single-minded focus on their work.  The only sounds were the soft beeps of data interfaces and the background murmur of hushed conversations.

The center of the room was dominated by a large tactical display, around which Admiral Chu huddled with a group of senior officers.

Seeing no obvious gatekeepers controlling access to the Admiral, Trip approached the group.  "You asked to see me, Admiral?"

Chu looked up.  "Captain Tucker, yes.  Thank you for coming.  I have a job for Chosin..."

#####

Afterwards, Trip made his way to the Enterprise ready room, where Captain Archer waved him inside.  He closed the file he was working on and swiveled his chair around, giving Trip his undivided attention.  "Well?"

"Chosin has a mission," Trip replied.  "Could be a cake-walk, or it could be a doozie."  He plopped into a chair and rubbed at his eyes.

"You look beat," Archer said.  "Do you have time for some coffee?"  At Trip's nod, he pressed a button on the comm panel and requested a thermos from the galley, then turned back to Trip.  "So, am I cleared to hear the details?"

"Yeah.  The Rommie ships we damaged in the fighting at Rho Virg are slowing down the Rommie fleet's withdrawal.  They can't go any faster than warp two without leaving a trail of stragglers."

Archer nodded.  "We've already picked off the stragglers that couldn't maintain at least warp two."

"Right.  Anyway, most of our ships expended all their torpedoes during the battle.  Magazines are bone-dry, which is why Chu elected not to go after the Rommies.  I hear he took some heat from the staff-weenies at Joint HQ for failing to launch an aggressive pursuit, but that's just nuts.  Without torpedoes it would have been a slug-fest, pitting their strength against our weakness.  Not a good idea."

"Unless you're plopped in a nice, soft chair behind a desk in San Francisco," Archer observed caustically.  "'What's your mission, then?"

"The Rommies seem to have decided we're not coming after them, so the bulk of their fleet just picked up the pace.  A couple of squadrons of cruisers were left behind with the damaged ships, but the rest of the Rommie fleet is heading for Terix at warp four."

Archer frowned, "Is that the mission?  Going after their damaged ships?  It's still a potent force, even without those escorting cruisers.  They may be damaged, but they've still got teeth."

"No, that's not it.  Admiral Chu has every intention of going after them, but not until he has rearmed a large enough strike force with torpedoes.  The resupply convoy only arrived a few days ago.  We haven't even finished rearming the ships in the picket screen, and they have priority."

"So the mission is..?" Archer prompted.

"We'll shadow the Rommie's main force and, um... discourage any attempts to reinforce their damaged ships when they see our strike force heading that way.  They may not even try.  If we're lucky, they'll just throw their damaged comrades to the wolves."

"Maybe," Archer said, "but I'm not holding my breath.  I'm also guessing Chu's not sending you out alone?"

"No.  Task Force 2.1 rides again--the original six ships, augmented with eight Vulcan fast attack cruisers."

"And will you be Task Force Commander again?"

Trip scowled.  "Yes."

Archer raised his eyebrows and smiled.  "Impressive.  Command of six ships last week.  Fourteen ships this week.  At the rate you're going, you'll have your own fleet by the end of the year."

"Thanks, but no thanks.  I don't even want to command ONE ship.  I'm an engineer, Jon.  It's all I want to be.  All I ever wanted to be."

Archer's smile faded and he let out a heavy sigh.  "This war has us all doing things we never wanted to do."

A crewman arrived bearing a carafe of coffee and two mugs, which he deposited on the table between the two men.  Archer nodded his thanks, then filled a mug and slid it toward Trip.

"How is T'Pol?" he asked, pouring coffee into his own mug.

"Why don't you ask her yourself?" Trip replied, his not-so-subtle way of letting Jon know that T'Pol was present via the bond.

"Someday I might get used this bond thing you two have." Archer said, shaking his head.

Trip snorted.  "Someday, I might get used to it."

"I would certainly hope so," Archer chuckled.  "So, T'Pol, how are you?"

"She says--"

Archer stopped him with an upheld hand, "Let me guess.  She's fine."

Trip grinned.  "Now she says if you already knew then why did you ask?  And she's giving you that look--you know the one I mean."

Archer grinned back, "Yeah, I know exactly which look you mean.  But the reason I asked is because I want to know how you really are.  Both of you."

Trip's expression grew somber.  "We're okay.  Really.  I have my moments," he admitted.  "I'm kind of having one now, in case you haven't noticed.  But T'Pol's there for me to lean on."

His gaze turned inward for a moment before speaking again, "She says she leans on me, too.  Although..." and here Trip's voice dropped into a conspiratorial tone, "just between you and me, I think I need most of the propping up."

"Somehow I'm not surprised," Archer said, taking a sip from his mug.  "And you, T'Pol?  What's your status?"

"She's still in a holding cell at the Imperial Courthouse in Laibok,.  She'll be meeting with her legal team in a few hours.  In the meantime, she has plenty of time to meditate.  But mostly, she hangs out with me.  We play chess, listen to music, read books, watch old movies.  That sort of thing."

"And when, amidst all that, do you find time to run your ship, Captain Tucker?" Archer teased.  But there was a part of him--buried deep, to be sure--that couldn't help but be a little jealous of what Trip shared with T'Pol.  There were times (more and more, of late) when Archer wondered if putting his career ahead of his personal life had been the correct choice.  The older he got, the less certain he was he'd been right.

"Hell, Jon.  Verley, Graham, and Saracco run Chosin.  All I have to do is walk around and look important."

Archer started laughing, and found he couldn't stop.  It felt damned good.

#####

United Earth Embassy Canteen, Laibok, Andoria, 3 April 2159

Shran took a cautious sip of the orange liquid and grimaced.  It was very... tart.  He pushed the glass aside and looked at the Human who awaited his verdict.

"No," Shran said.  "No, I cannot drink that.  What else would you recommend?"

The Human waiter smiled imperceptibly.  "Perhaps if you tried another sip..?"

"No, I--" Shran's protest died on his lips as he realized the initial tartness was gone, replaced by a flavor both exotic and delightfully sweet.

Interesting, he thought.  He reached for the glass again, taking another cautious sip.  Yes, a hint of the tartness was there, but mostly he tasted that wonderful sweetness.

"On second thought," Shran said, "I believe this will do.  What is it called?"

The waiter's smile broadened.  "Orange juice, sir."

Shran squinted at the glass of orange liquid in his hand.  "Orange juice.  Of course; how imaginative."  The waiter retreated, still smiling, and Shran turned his attention back to the Canteen door.

His brother was late.

Not that Shran was surprised by this.  Shartal was a civilian after all--a musician--and had never been subject to the Imperial Guard's unyielding discipline, which, despite their father's continuing disappointment, was certainly for the best.  His brother would not have lasted long in the Guard, possessing neither the desire nor temperament for such a life.

Shran took another long sip of the delightful liquid while he contemplated the past.  He had once shared his father's opinion of his younger brother, considering him erratic, irresponsible, and weak.  That opinion had changed when he saw just how passionate Shartal could be in the pursuit of his art.  Despite their differences, Shran had to respect such single-minded determination and devotion to one's craft.

It wasn't until Shran was halfway through the glass of orange juice that Shartal finally appeared in the Canteen's doorway.  His face lit into a pleased grin when he saw Shran.

"There you are, Brother!" he said, approaching the table.  "We are all wondering what is so important that it keeps you away from home on your first visit to Andoria since the war's beginning.  Father is highly distressed."

Shran grinned and gestured for his brother to join him.  "Highly distressed?  That means everything is completely normal.  It's good to see you, Shartal.  How is your wife?"

"Varsha is as beautiful as ever," Shartal replied.  "But you, Shran?  How are you?  We heard of your wounds."

"As you can see, my wounds are healing."

"That's good.  You had us all worried.  Well, maybe not Father.  He's just jealous.  Jealous that you're off fighting and he's not.  He spends his days hoping Andoria is invaded and the Imperial Guard must mobilize the Retired Reserve.  I think Father will be the only one not happy when this war is finally over."  Shartal giggled and Shran snorted his amusement.  Their father had never avoided a fight in his life, and his retirement from the Guard had been predictably traumatic.  Both for him, and by extension, everyone around him.

Shartal's smile faded and he cast a searching look at Shran, "Shran, when will this war be over?"

"Impossible to say," Shran said.  He regarded his brother through narrowed eyes.  "Do you even know who we're fighting?"

"Of course I do!  The war is all anyone talks about.  We're fighting the, uh, Romulans... Right?"

"Right," Shran agreed, although he would not have been terribly surprised if his brother hadn't known.  Shartal could be blissfully ignorant about events outside the circle of his music.

"You still haven't told me why you haven't come home," Shartal asked in a plaintive voice.  "Or why you're here at the Human embassy."

"I can't leave Laibok right now.  I'm helping a comrade.  A friend.  Commander T'Pol."

"A very odd name," Shartal said.

"Not for a Vulcan," Shran replied, and Shartal's eyes widened in astonishment.

"A Vulcan?  But... you said friend.  Does Father know?"

Shran laughed.  "Have I been disowned?  Stripped of my name?  Banished from the homestead?  If not, then it's safe to say he doesn't know."

Shartal giggled nervously, but was saved from having to comment when Shran next spoke.  "Ah, the meeting must be over.  There's the person I'm waiting for..."

He followed Shran's eyes to the Canteen door, where an older Andorian male stood looking around.  Shartal immediately recognized him.  "Old Thev?  The Clan legal advocate?  Are you in trouble with the law, Shran?"

"Not me," Shran answered.  "He's here to help Commander T'Pol."  Shran lifted an arm to get Thev's attention, and the advocate joined them at their table.

They exchanged cursory greetings, then got down to business.  "I have just come from a meeting of Commander T'Pol's legal team," Thev said.  "You were correct to have me attend.  I'm afraid they were laboring under a severe misconception."

Shran's antennae twitched.  "There is no one I trust more regarding such matters than you, Thev.  I'm glad you could rearrange your schedule on such short notice."

Thev snorted.  "I didn't rearrange it so much as I completely ignored it.  You were highly insistent, as I recall.  I'm taking you at your word that this Vulcan is worth my time and trouble."

"She is," Shran confirmed.  "Now, what is this misconception you spoke of?"

"Her legal team was proceeding on the assumption that the terms of the Human extradition treaty would apply at her trial.  This is not the case, of course, since she was not actually extradited.  Rather, she surrendered herself.  The Government will argue that this makes her subject to the full range of judicial punishments available to the court, up to and including death."

A shocked silence descended on the table.  "What can be done?" Shran asked, once he had absorbed Thev's blunt assessment.

Thev's reply was equally blunt:  "Nothing."

Shran's jaw clenched in frustration and anger.  He could not accept that.  He would not accept that.

#####

Imperial Courthouse, Laibok, Andoria, 5 April 2159

T'Pol had been on Andoria a little less than three days but had already settled into something of a routine.  Most of her time was consumed by meetings with her legal team, who seemed to require endlessly-repeated statements regarding her actions in the Teneebian sector.  She had a few other official visitors, mostly from the Earth and Vulcan embassies.  And then there was Shran.  He'd made a point of visiting at least twice a day since her arrival, just to see how she was doing, and to talk.

She had come to look forward to his visits as a welcome break in the monotony, but this time he was not alone in the small visitation room.  He greeted her with a smile, which seemed a little strained to her.  The other Andorian stood stiffly and regarded her with an indifferent expression.

Shran turned to him.  "Eldest, permit me to introduce Commander T'Pol, most recently Captain of the Starfleet frigate Chosin."  Shran's uncharacteristically deferential attitude was not lost on T'Pol.  This person is clearly someone of high standing, she realized.  Shran seemed at once both hopeful and nervous in his presence.

Shran continued his introduction.  "Under her command, Chosin was the most successful warship in--"

"I am familiar with her military record," the elderly Andorian interrupted, "at least the portion which was made public.  I am willing to concede its impressiveness.  But that is hardly the issue here, is it Shran?"

"No, Eldest." Shran replied, chastened.

The old Andorian continued to look her over, his eyes lingering on her ill-fitting green poncho and over-sized slippers.  T'Pol returned his gaze calmly, arms clasped behind her back.  She had no idea what was going on, but it was obviously something of great importance to Shran.  She was confident he would tell her what she needed to know in due time.

After several moments the old Andorian turned his attention back to Shran.  "Does she know why I'm here?" he asked.

"No, Eldest.  I haven't had a chance to discuss that with her."

His laugh was so soft as to be barely audible.  "Then I suppose you should tell her.  But first let us sit."  He walked to the nearest chair, his movements slow and deliberate lest his body's great age betray him.

Shran gave T'Pol an apologetic look, and motioned toward two chairs facing the old Andorian.  She arched an eyebrow, but took one of the indicated seats while Shran took the other.

"Commander T'Pol, this is Thralas, Eldest of the Table of Elders for Clan Gharal.  The Table of Elders is the highest authority and final arbiter of all matters related to the Clan."

"I presume that you are of this clan... Clan Gharal?" she asked.

"Yes.  Gharal blood runs through my veins, Gharal tradition lights my path, and Gharal honor guides my hand.

T'Pol inclined her head.  "You honor me, Eldest."

"That remains to be seen, Commander," Thralas replied.  His tone was not quite ominous, nor was it entirely friendly.

"Eldest Thralas is here at my request, Commander.  I have petitioned the Table of Elders to... to adopt you into the Clan."

It took a great effort for T'Pol to conceal her astonishment.

"He has asked to meet with you," Shran continued.  "To speak with you.  It is... it is no small matter to be adopted into an Andorian Clan.  He needs to know... needs to be sure that you won't... that you are..."

"That I am worthy," T'Pol said, completing Shran's thought.

"Yes," Shran agreed.  "My personal assurances carry only so much weight."

Thralas snorted.  "Spare me the false modesty, Shran," he interjected.  "Your assurances carry great weight.  They were sufficient to bring me here--the rest is in her hands."

"I apologize, Eldest." Shran said.  "Commander T'Pol, Eldest Thralas must assess you... must assess your, uh, suitability... your... your..."

T'Pol could not recall seeing Shran quite this flustered before.  She quieted him with a light touch on his arm.  "I understand the need to protect your Clan.  I do not understand your petition to adopt me.  Perhaps if you explained that first..?"

Shran was obviously uncomfortable, but he made an effort to compose himself.  "Commander, did you know that you could be facing capital charges?"

"My legal team advised me of that possibility yesterday.  It appears that I may not be entitled to the protections of Earth's extradition treaty due to the manner in which I was detained."

"Because you voluntarily turned yourself in, the extradition papers were never served.  If convicted, Chancellor Shalin can have you put to death.  And if he can, he will."

"An admitted miscalculation on my part," T'Pol observed.  "However, my legal team is optimistic that I will not be convicted."

"Maybe so, but that is a risk I am unwilling to take.  If you were adopted into Clan Gharal, you would have all the rights, privileges, and protections of Andorian citizenship.  Including the right of Ushaan."

T'Pol almost sighed.  Ushaan.  Now I understand.

Ushaan was the ancient code that governed most aspects of conflict resolution and personal honor in Andorian culture.  It was an old code, centuries old, containing thousands of complex articles and provisions, yet it still superseded the modern judicial system in many respects.

T'Pol had a superficial familiarity with the code from a prior incident on Enterprise.  Shran had invoked Ushaan in a duel with a Tellarite to avenge the death of his lieutenant, Talas.  Captain Archer had narrowly averted a diplomatic disaster by taking advantage of the Ushaan's many convoluted exceptions to substitute himself for the Tellarite in the ensuing combat.

"Is it your intention that I should invoke Ushaan and challenge Chancellor Shalin to a duel?" T'Pol asked.

Shran grinned savagely.  "Yes!  Shalin is a politician.  He has never served in the Guard.  He has probably not touched a ushaan-tor--or any other weapon--since childhood.  You could kill him easily."

"And if he finds a substitute?  A champion?  Someone I might not so easily defeat?"

"Then his dishonor would be complete.  He would be admitting to all of Andoria that he loves his miserable life more than his own good name, the memory of his son, or the honor of his Clan.  He would be reviled by all as a craven coward.  It will not happen."

"Shran, I will not fight Shalin."

"T'Pol, he wants you dead.  You have every right to defend yourself!"

"I know what it is like to lose a child.  I will not kill Shalin.  I cannot."

Shran was stricken as his carefully formulated plan began to unravel in the face of T'Pol's moral objections.  "T'Pol..." he said, "Shalin cares nothing for you.  He doesn't deserve your compassion."

"Still, I will not be responsible for his death.  I will not take his life."

Shran was silent as he searched for an argument to refute a concept he could barely comprehend.

Thralas had also been following the exchange with great interest.  "Do you object to the concept of adoption in general, or just to Shran's reason for proposing it?" he asked T'Pol.

"I object only to the reason for the adoption," T'Pol answered.

"Then I suggest there are benefits to adoption--beyond the right of Ushaan--that might be helpful in your legal battles.  If you are open to it, I am still willing to consider Shran's petition."

T'Pol glanced at Shran, who wore a hopeful expression, then back at Thralas.  "I am," she stated.

"You are willing, then, or so you say.  Let us see if you are worthy.  Commander, may I call you T'Pol?"

"You may."

"T'Pol, if Clan Gharal adopts you then everything you do, everything you say, everything you are, reflects back on the Clan.  Whatever honor accrues to you also accrues to the Clan.  But if you dishonor yourself, you also dishonor the Clan.  So before I can decide, there is one question I must consider:  How will your adoption affect the honor of the Clan?  It is a question easily asked, yet not so easily answered."

T'Pol was silent, letting Thralas set the tone and direction of the discussion.

"There are several positive qualities in your favor," he continued.  "You speak flawless Andorian.  You are a formidable warrior and an accomplished leader--the highly-decorated captain of a warship credited with the destruction of many of Andoria's enemys."

"There are also some negative qualities that I must consider.  You sit here wearing prison green," he said, reaching out with a gnarled hand to grasp the material of her poncho.  He tugged repeatedly to emphasize his point.  "It is a color that bodes ill for the honor of the Clan."

"It is her honor that has brought her to this!" Shran interjected.  "I've explained this to you, Eldest."

"Yes.  But who will explain it to the other Clans?"

Shran's lips compressed in displeasure, and he looked away.

"There is also the fact that you are Vulcan.  That alone would disqualify you in the minds of many."

"There is no dishonor in being Vulcan," Shran muttered.

"Many would disagree with you," Thralas said.  Then he looked at T'Pol.  "You have been very quiet.  Have you nothing to say?"

"Only that Shran is correct.  There is no dishonor in being Vulcan.  But neither is there honor in being Vulcan.  Honor derives from our actions, not our being.  There are honorable and dishonorable Vulcans, just as there are honorable and dishonorable Andorians."

T'Pol took a moment to smooth the wrinkles from the poncho covering her lap, "I must be honest with you, Eldest.  I cannot promise I will never bring dishonor to your Clan.  As a Starfleet officer, I am bound by my oath to United Earth.  That is where my primary allegiance lies.  If I have to choose between my duty to the Clan and my duty to Starfleet, I must choose Starfleet."

"I see," Thralas said.

"Also, I cannot promise that I will always adhere to the codes and traditions of the Clan.  Even the ones I am aware of."

Shran supressed a groan at the way T'Pol seemed intent on undermining her chances.

"You are unwilling to learn and follow our ways?" Thralas asked.

"No, Eldest.  But I have learned that no way can be correct all of the time.  I violated my oath to Starfleet when I came here.  I am sworn to obey the orders of my superiors, yet I placed myself into Andorian custody despite explicit orders to the contrary from a senior officer."

"What led you to disobey?"

"One portion of my oath conflicted with another.  My obligation to defend Earth was contradicted by my obligation to follow orders.  I had to decide which would take precedence."

"You believe you are qualified to make such judgments?"

"Yes.  In matters involving personal honor, we must all make our own judgments.  Who else is more qualified?  Who else could be trusted for such?"

"And was your judgment correct?"

T'Pol looked Thralas directly in the eye.  "Coalition forces now hold Rho Virginis.  This could not have happened without the full participation of the Imperial Guard.  If we had not destroyed the Romulan supply facilities at Rho Virginis, we would be unable to stop them from taking Earth, and if Earth falls, the Coalition falls.  Romulus would be free to conquer each nation individually.  First the Tellarites.  Then the Vulcans.  Finally the Andorians.  That is what is at stake here, Eldest.  That is why I did what I did."

"Eldest, there can be no doubt that her judgment was correct.  She has clearly saved the Coalition from military disaster."  Shran's desire to make sure Thralas understood was almost palpable.

"Shran, you lose sight of the issue.  After speaking with T'Pol, it is clear to me that her judgment is sound and her honor is strong.  But my charge is to protect the Clan and act in its best interests.  Can you look me in the eye and tell me that adopting T'Pol would not diminish the standing and reputation of our Clan?  That the resulting controversy would not be detrimental to our business relations or our political interests?"

"Eldest," Shran pleaded, "she has saved all of Andoria from Shalin's ill-conceived policies; from-- from military defeat, or worse!  You must reconsider--"

"Answer my question, Shran.  Will T'Pol's adoption diminish the standing and reputation of our Clan?  Yes or no."

"Yes," Shran replied through clenched teeth.

"But you would have me do so anyway?"

"Yes!"

"And so I shall," Thralas said.  "I intend to strongly recommend that the Table of Elders approve your petition."

Shran's mouth gaped open, but no sound came out.

Thralas smiled, pleased by the effect of his words.  "There is more to honor than blind adherence to a code, Shran.  T'Pol already knows this, and you are clearly learning.  It is a lesson some Andorians never master, no matter how long they live.  I will disregard my obligation to the Clan for the same reason T'Pol disregarded her orders, because it is right and honorable.  Now please, close your mouth."

Shran's mouth snapped shut.  "Thank you, Eldest."

Thralas turned his attention back to T'Pol.  "Protocol requires that I ask you one more question, although I suspect I know what your answer will be.  Are you prepared to regard Shran as blood of your blood, as a brother in every respect, if this adoption is consummated?"

"No," T'Pol said.

Thralas blinked.  "No?"

"No.  Shran has staked his honor and risked his reputation on my behalf, and he has done so without any thought of gain or benefit for himself.  No.  I do not need a legal adoption to regard Shran as my brother.  He has proven himself such through his actions.  Regardless what happens here, regardless what the Elders' may decide, Shran is my brother in every way that matters."

Thralas slowly stood.  "Then we are done here.  Tomorrow, I will convene the Table to formally consider your petition.  There will be some resistance, of course, but I will deal with that.  You, Shran, will not speak out of turn.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, Eldest."

"Very well.  I am leaving now.  Will you come with me, or stay to talk with your sister?"

"I will let T'Pol decide," Shran said, grinning.  "Would you like some company... sister?"

"That would be agreeable... brother."

#####

Enterprise, Rho Virginis, 5 April 2159

"Admiral Chu will see you now."

Commander Wexler, CO of the Starfleet frigate Verdun, squared his shoulders and followed the young Petty Officer down the passageway to Chu's private office.  He entered to find the Admiral seated behind his desk--a large, Admiral-sized desk, Wexler noted--talking to Captain Walker, Second Fleet's Chief of Staff.

Admiral Chu tossed the PADD he was holding onto an untidy stack, which teetered precariously but did not fall, then turned his attention to Wexler.  He leaned forward, somehow finding room on the cluttered desktop to rest his forearms, and gave Wexler an expectant look.  "Have a seat, Commander," he said.  "Tell me what's on your mind."

"Good morning Admiral Chu, Captain Walker," Wexler said, greeting them both. "Thank you for seeing me."  There were two chairs in the room, both facing Admiral Chu's desk.  Captain Walker occupied one; Wexler took the other.

"How much time do I have, Harold?" Chu asked, glancing at Walker.

"Ten minutes, Admiral.  Then you're meeting with the J4."

"Again?  Didn't she just brief me a couple of hours ago?"

"Right, but that was the daily logistics update," Walker replied.  "This meeting concerns the new Tellarite convoy schedules and all the problems they're causing."

Chu heaved a theatrical sigh and gave Wexler an apologetic look.  "It's true what they say:  Amateurs study tactics.  Professionals study logistics.  Sorry Commander, I can only give you ten minutes.  Try to be brief."

"Yes sir."  Wexler suppressed a surge of annoyance and got right to the point.  "I have some, uh, reservations about Task Force 2.1."  His eyes flicked from Chu to Walker, then back to Chu as he tried to judge their reaction.  Their faces revealed nothing but polite interest.

"Go on," Chu prompted.

Wexler charged ahead.  "I don't believe Commander Tucker is the right person to command the task force.  He's reckless and lacks experience."

"Under his command TF 2.1 engaged and destroyed nine Rommie warbirds," Chu observed, "all without losing a single ship.  I have a hard time ignoring results like that."

Wexler barely contained a derisive snort.  "Tucker was lucky.  If it hadn't been for the antimatter shortage, TF 2.1 would have been destroyed.  Without the extra shielding on those new fission warheads, we would have been overwhelmed by the Romulans.  Tucker's plan did not account for that; he admits as much in his after-action report.  The capabilities of the new warheads were a complete surprise.  It was nothing more than random, unanticipated good fortune.  Next time we might not be so lucky.  An officer with more experience and better judgement should be given command."

"An officer such as yourself?"

Wexler paused and carefully considered his reply.  He was, of course, fully qualified to command Task Force 2.1 and would do a much better job than Tucker, but he immediately recognized how it would appear if he said as much.  Admiral Chu might interpret his concerns as a mere grab for power and dismiss them out of hand.  More was at stake here than his career.

"I don't deny I have the necessary experience and temperament for the job," Wexler stated, his voice dripping with sincerity, "but all of the other captains have more experience than Tucker.  You've placed the most junior captain in command of the whole task force!"

"Hmmm..." Chu muttered as he pondered Wexler's remarks.

Wexler took heart from Chu's thoughtful expression.  Once he realizes a more senior officer is needed, Wexler thought, it's a very short step to recognizing that I'm the best-qualified replacement.

"I think you're right," Chu announced, after a long moment.  "Tucker doesn't have the rank to command a fourteen-ship task force."

Wexler clamped down on his sudden eagerness and leaned forward to better hear the Admiral's solution.

Chu looked over at his Chief of Staff.  "Harold, I want Commander Tucker promoted to the rank of Captain, effective immediately.  I want the orders ready for my signature and on my desk today."

"Aye, Admiral," Walker replied.  "You'll have them before lunch."

What!?  Wexler sat in stunned disbelief.  "Admiral, you can't do that!" he exclaimed.

Chu turned his attention back to Wexler, eyes narrowed.  "I can't?"

Wexler immediately regretted his outburst.  Not because he was wrong--he was not!--but because publicly questioning the judgment of a Flag officer was never a wise career move.  He stood to leave, his face a frozen mask.  "I'm very sorry Admiral.  Of course you can do it; I'm just not sure it's for the best.  If you'll excuse me, I'll return to my ship..."

"Commander Wexler."

"Yes, Admiral?"

"We're not going to defeat the Romulans without taking some risks.  I need leaders who aren't overly cautious, who will act when an opportunity presents itself.  Tucker will.  I don't know about you."

Wexler gritted his teeth.  "Very well, Admiral."  There was really nothing else he could say.

 

Continued in Chapter Nine

 

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