Coming Home

CHAPTER TWO

"There's every way of knowing. Look, I can guarantee you that we're not going to lose touch." ~Trip Tucker from These Are The Voyages

Trip threw his hands onto the console in front of him, barely keeping his face from smashing into the unforgiving metal of the console. His gaze flickered rapidly between the navigation panel, the ship status screen and the sensor screen as he struggled to pilot the foreign craft.

The vessel shuddered violently and Trip cursed when he noticed a blinking red light appear on the engines on the ship status screen. No warp engines. Those had been his last shot at making it to Jupiter Station. He sighed. He couldn't outrun them so he'd have to hide from them. If he could make it into friendly space, he could get a coded message to a nearby ship and, therefore, to Starfleet.

Sensors showed a planet with breathable atmosphere approximately five minutes from his present location. He grimaced. He'd have to push the impulse engines to nearly breach limits, but surrender wasn't an option. He released a heavy sigh and entered the commands into the console. 

The computer warned of another incoming volley of weapons fire and Trip returned his focus to outmaneuvering the blasts. However, the small craft was meant to be piloted by two people. Trip found himself controlling two stations and this slowed his reaction time a great deal. One of the shots struck his maneuvering thrusters, knocking out the auto pilot.

He swallowed roughly and switched the controls to manual. He was in deep shit. Piloting had never been his strong suit and here he sat forced to pilot an alien craft that he was learning to control as he went without any computer to compensate.

He drew in a ragged breath, his heart beating a rapid tattoo against the walls of his chest. "No guts, no glory," he choked.

Struggling to remember the little piloting education he'd gotten at the Academy, he put the ship through a series of spinning and evasion maneuvers designed to deflect and avoid enemy fire.

Three minutes. 

The enemy vessels managed another lucky strike, this one to the shuttle's weapons. Won't need those anyway, Trip thought. 

Two minutes.  

He barely managed to evade a blow that would have taken out the shuttle's impulse engines.

Forty-five seconds.

Trip managed to turn the shuttle to avoid yet another volley of weapons' fire, but the sudden jerk of the vessel tossed him from his chair. His shoulder collided with the nearby wall and a sickening pop echoed throughout the cabin. Trip bit his lip to contain a shout of agony. 

He struggled to stand and fell into the chair in front of the console with a 'plop'. The motion jarred his injured shoulder and he yelped in surprise. Fighting off a wave of dizziness, he piloted the craft one handed toward the inhabitable planet.  

One year later...

I have lived among Humans for too long, she thought, grimacing. She entered Phoebe's Coffeehouse two blocks from Starfleet headquarters and took her place in the single-file line of individuals awaiting their morning brew. 

One sip of the substance Humans called coffee had led her to drink far more than was healthy. Upon learning of her unusual enjoyment of the substance, Marcie, a young Human co-worker, had insisted that she sample something Marcie had identified as a 'vanilla latte'. Having an equally odd enjoyment of vanilla, T'Pol had found the beverage likewise pleasing to her palette.

Slowly, the line thinned and T'Pol found herself at the counter before the smiling barista whom T'Pol had learned was called Maria. 

"Good morning, T'Pol," Maria greeted. "Your usual?"

T'Pol hesitated and glanced up at the menu. "I believe I shall be adventurous and sample the large chilled café mocha, nonfat and decaffeinated."

Maria's grin widened as she wrote the order on the recycled plastic cup. She then looked up and asked, "Would you like whipped cream with that?"

T'Pol nodded. It was a rare indulgence, but one she never regretted it on those few occasions that her curious nature overrode her logic.

Maria sat the cup next to the machine and the barista beside her began concocting the drink. "Would you like a pastry?" she asked.

T'Pol eyed the scones in the glass case momentarily before replying, "No, thank you."

"That'll be 4 credits," Maria said.

T'Pol placed the requested amount of chits into the woman's hand, then dropping another two into the tip jar beside the register. She then moved toward the end of the counter where she would retrieve her drink.

Maria then looked up to greet the next customer. T'Pol's ears perked up when a male voice replied with his order. She noted the familiar twang of an accent she had often associated with Trip. Her heart raced and she wondered if he had at last returned and had, by coincidence, come to the same coffee shop she visited regularly. 

He isn't the only one who has that accent. Many Humans speak with a similar inflection, her logical self chided.

But still, her heart thumped against the walls of her chest. Unable to stop herself, she turned toward the man. The image before her eyes caused her heart to sink in disappointment. The man was a stranger. His hair was a dark brown in contrast with Trip's blond locks. Moreover, the man's hair curled at his nape, grown to a length Trip had often expressed his displeasure for. Additionally, the man's features were sharper and cleaner than Trip's, making the man altogether more intimidating than her Trip.

Suddenly, he turned toward her and their gazes locked. At first, his features contorted in a mixture of shock and a kinder emotion, one of awe. A nervous smile slid over his lips and T'Pol dropped her gaze from his. She heard the clink of chits dropping into a glass jar and she looked up to find him moving toward her.

The man chuckled. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say I had a stalker."

T'Pol arched an eyebrow. "I don't believe 'stalker' would be an accurate term as that would imply you have seen me in too many locations over too long a period for it to be mere coincidence."

As she spoke, she had the most peculiar feeling of knowing this man intimately-beyond the bounds of a common association. She studied the man's features more closely, but was still unable to understand why she felt such a connection to an absolute stranger.

That nervous smile crossed his lips again and she could see by the way he was worrying the inside of his cheek that he found her gaze to be uncomfortable. She glanced away and wrung her hands in embarrassment.

"I apologize if my behavior discomforts you," she said. "You remind me very much of a man I once knew."

The man chuckled. "Now there's a new one. I'm not sure I've ever heard a Vulcan give an apology for anything before."

His reference to the stereotypical beliefs in regards to her people caused her to stand ramrod straight.

The man grimaced. "I guess I owe you an apology now. No matter how many Vulcan friends I have who prove me wrong, I suppose I still tend to think all Vulcans are the same."

She nodded in acknowledgement of his apology, but remained silent. 

He sighed. "Look, we started off on the wrong foot. Can we start over?" He extended his hand. "I'm Charlie Kilby."

She grasped his extended hand. "I am T'Pol." 

He smiled. "A pleasure." He then bent and kissed her hand in a way very reminiscent of an act performed by Human knights over a millennium ago. Her cheeks flushed. It is illogical to derive such pleasure from such an act, her logical self chastised. However, this did nothing to decrease the heat his act flared in her most secret places.

"Venti, non-fat, decaffeinated iced café mocha with whipped cream for T'Pol," the barista called out, setting the drink toward the edge of the counter for her to retrieve. She plucked a straw from the basket on the counter and tore the paper from it with agile fingers before poking it through the small opening at the top. She took a small sip from the drink and her eyebrows arched high, signaling that the taste pleased her.

The man's smile widened as he watched her consume her drink with increasing enthusiasm.

"Coffee for Charlie," the barista called.

He then moved forward to claim his drink. T'Pol halted her tasting of her drink and arched a curious eyebrow.

He shrugged. "I never have liked all the fancy mixes they make. Good, strong coffee clears my mind better than anything else I know."

T'Pol frowned. The man's philosophy on coffee was very similar to Trip's. As she was about to reply, one of the barista's tapped the man on the shoulder. He turned, offering her a genuine smile. She then slipped a napkin into his hand.

"Call me," she said with a wink.

Charlie's smile remained kind. He nodded, but said nothing. T'Pol then turned and moved to exit the coffee shop. Charlie said goodbye to the barista and thanked her for his drink before darting out after T'Pol. 

He looked left and right, then noting her standing near a crosswalk. He hurried to catch up with her. At last, he came to a halt beside her. She turned.

"Aqua. Noon," he said. She opened her mouth to protest. "I won't take no for an answer." She paused for a moment, then nodding in reply. He smiled. "Great. See you there, darlin'."

He then turned and strode quickly in the opposite direction, crossing the street in front of a series of high-rise buildings that T'Pol recognized as belonging to Lexicon, Inc., a prestigious hovercar insurance firm.

Her brow furrowed in thought. She had been tempted to refuse the offer. She needn't embarrass herself further in front of this man; and yet, she felt compelled to delve further into her feelings of familiarity, to learn why she was so at ease with this man. A meal would provide just such an opportunity.

The light across the street signaled for her to stride toward the other side. She stepped onto the asphalt streets, her mind abuzz with questions to ask her mealtime companion.