Fur and Feathers

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

A little less than an hour later Sub-Commander T'Pol was crouching in the negligible shelter of a stand of bushes she had chosen more for the color of their withering, brown, arrow-shaped leaves than for any protection they were likely to offer against the rain.  The camp had been set up on an area where the plain dropped to the level of the watercourse, and most of the inhabitants had retreated inside.  There were perhaps twenty tents in all, of varying sizes.  Horse lines – or more correctly ‘deer lines’ – had been set up: forty or so blindfolded animals nosed at heaps of wet fodder or just stood resignedly in the downpour, their great ears flickering occasionally at the thunder.   A number of what appeared to be a variety of oxen had been picketed alongside a line of baggage wains.  The darkness of the storm had made it necessary for lamps to be lit inside most of the tents against the premature evening; shadows came and went against the canvas, revealing the movements of those within.  It appeared unlikely that there was any plan to move out if the storm passed before nightfall.  Fires had been lit beside some of the larger tents with wet leather awnings carefully placed to keep off the rain, although those who tended them bore it perforce, and the scent of cooking drifted on the damp air.

Two sentries had been placed on duty – one at either side of the camp.  A very short period of observation revealed that they were not within sight of each other.  Their presence was no more than a formality.  The one nearest to her hardly bothered to raise his head from time to time, but stood gloomily enduring the deluge.  Large drops ran down the metal planes of his helmet on to the nasal, gathered on the end of his beak and plopped into the large puddle forming on the wet earth between his sandalled feet.

Nevertheless, if she was going to mount her one-Vulcan invasion of the camp he had to be neutralised.  Fortunately, those who had sited the tents had not taken into account the fact that as a basic security measure a good area of open ground should always be left between the camp perimeter and the nearest cover.  Fern foamed almost right up to several of the tents.  She crept sideways soundlessly, wormed across to the side of the nearest for which the fern afforded her cover and then slid back towards him, keeping in the shadow of the canvas overhangs.  It occurred to her to wonder whether the nerve-paths of these bird-people corresponded to those species on whom her planned method of attack had previously proved successful; just in case it didn’t, she had the phase pistol ready in her left hand.

For a long moment T'Pol hesitated.  The sentry was so negligent that she could quite probably walk into the camp unseen behind his back with hardly any risk of discovery.  But there was too much danger that he might choose to look around at the wrong moment.  He had to be taken out of the reckoning.

She glanced to ensure that the pistol was still on stun setting, cast a last look around to make sure that when she stood up she would be unobserved from within the camp, and then, rising to a half-crouch, flitted up behind the sentry.  A sudden gust of wind buffeted him; he swayed slightly and muttered under his breath.  Her hand slid into the gap between his helmet and the top rim of his pauldron, plunging among the wet feathers with the swiftness of a striking snake.  The differences in muscular structure were enough to allow him time to draw a single deep breath before she found the vulnerable spot she was seeking.  The air went out of his lungs in a long gasp as his legs buckled; she dropped the pistol on to the soaking earth as she grabbed him, making sure that his fall was relatively silent.

It was safer to conceal him in the nearest undergrowth than to put him anywhere near one of the tents, where any passer-by might see him and raise the alarm.  More swathes of rain swept blurring veils across the camp as she half-lifted, half-carried his heavy, armored body into the bushes where she herself had taken refuge.  That taken care of, she retrieved the pistol and crouched once more in the lee of the nearest tent while she studied the scanner again, establishing the location of the tent where Commander Tucker’s bio-signs were still reassuringly strong.  He had not moved in the intervening time: perhaps he was guarded or bound, or even unconscious.

The tent beside her was fortunately temporarily empty.  She lay down and peered under the rim of the canvas wall.  Anonymous heaps of fabric met her gaze in the gloom, many of them within quite easy grabbing distance.  She slid a cautious arm inside, seized a fold of cloth and pulled it gently.  Luck was with her.  She appeared to have found a store of clothing – damp, but she could not become any wetter than she was already.  The plain brown robe had a deep hood and long sleeves: at a guess, it was priests’ or servants’ garb.  It also had internal pockets, as she discovered when she had quickly donned it.  That was a bonus: she could stow away the scanner and the translator separately without any fear of them clanking together.  Reluctantly she decided to keep the phase pistol available for use if absolutely necessary, held in one hand tucked up inside one of the voluminous sleeves.

Her disguise now safely in place, she stood up again cautiously.  The tent she had to aim for was not far distant.  It was considerably more luxurious than most of the others: its canvas was dyed bright orange and the ropes that held it upright were worked with gold thread.  A saturated pennant hung limply from a staff jammed upright in the earth in front of the entrance to it, too sodden to stir to any save the most emphatic gust of wind.  Presumably that was thought to be sufficient warning against any unauthorised entry, for there were no sentries on duty.

Working on the premise that the less she tried to be inconspicuous the more inconspicuous she would actually become, she began walking through the camp, hood up and head down but her strides open and confident.  Several similarly dressed individuals bustled to and fro in various directions, evidently keen to spend as short a time as possible out of shelter and too distracted to pay her any heed whatever. The downpour was ample reason for every head to be covered; some ran out with extra swathes of cloth held over themselves, but nothing they had available could keep out this kind of rainfall for long.

She reached her goal without incident.  The luxurious nature of the tent was now revealed to include three separate apartments at its far end.  Further furtive examination of the scanner outside revealed that Commander Tucker was in the central one of these, and that he was guarded – presumably by another of the soldiers.  A number of other people were in the main body of the structure, but the left and right of the three smaller apartments were empty.  Lamps and voices and the smell of food suggested that a meal was in progress.

The rain began to hammer down with even greater vigor as she slipped between this and the adjoining tent; the clouds growled threats, but the lightning held off briefly.  Out of sight, she went down on to her stomach and examined the base of the back wall of the left hand apartment.  It was sewn to a ground sheet with gold thread, but being chiefly for decorative effect, this was not strong.  Certainly it was not as strong as a determined Vulcan.  Once the gap was wide enough, she wriggled through it, serpentine in the dark.  A camp bed of sorts stood immediately in front of her, slathered in rich furs and fabrics.  Quickly she slid forward underneath it.  Safe from discovery for the moment, she put down the phase pistol and drew out the translator.  She needed to get some information about these people – most importantly, if possible, what they intended to do about (or to) their prisoner in the next few minutes.

The display flickered in the gloom as it found the correct programme.  The voices in the next room began to make sense.

“You have no right to forbid me.”  Sibilant and threatening.

“I do not forbid you.  If you want a plaything that is your affair.”  Bored.  “But you are taking a risk.”

“Yes!  Vede’hanax will hear of this from a dozen sources!”  Shrill and resentful.  “You think you will be safe, because he desires closer ties to ensure our father’s loyalty?  He will not disregard something like this!  He will send you home like a whipped bitch, and who will take you to wife then?”

“True.  And it may possibly have some ramifications for us.  Not that that would interest you excessively, of course.”  A hardening note in the boredom.  “I for one do not intend to be a junior wife forever.  But it will be somewhat difficult to act on that aspiration if I begin life in the Women’s Quarters known only as the sister of a slut who quenched her heats with a ... well... a whatever he is.”

“You think I am a fool?  You think I would risk being sent tamely home, leaving you to the power?  We will see who advances fastest and furthest in the Emperor’s favour.”  She stretched.  “I have my plans ready.”

“If these plans include a method of obtaining your pleasures without risk, we would be fascinated to hear them,” said the third spitefully.  “In view of the fact that we will doubtless be privileged to lie awake half the night listening, you could at least let us into the secret first.”

“No secrets between sisters?”  The sly smile was audible.  “Sare’sora is an old fool, but he knows his work.  Also he fears me.  While he was preparing to bind up the prisoner’s foot, I ordered him to mix ... something additional ... into the prisoner’s medicine.  And he did not dare refuse.”

There was the sound of caught breath.  “Halkarh,” someone said almost inaudibly.

“Precisely.” Less a bird than a contented cat, purring over the body of its victim.  “And when he can no longer pleasure me, I shall scream, ‘Help! Help! The monster has slipped its bonds and assaulted me. I am a victim.  I have been ravaged in my own bed, in my own tent!’  Who can blame me for that?”

“And – the punishment?” A hushed and greedy whisper.  “There will be punishment?”

“Naturally.  Something ... memorable.  Packs of garynnai hunt out on the plains.  As soon as the sun rises we ride out in search of one.  We give them a taste of his blood ... we let them catch his scent ... and then we watch.”

“He is strong.” The excitement was almost feral.  “It will be talked of all over the Empire!”

“Exactly.  And why should Vede’hanax blame me?  I have only avenged my honour and his.  And I am sure that neither of you will say differently.  Even if you do have to lie awake all night listening.”  A snigger, and the sound of wine splashing into a goblet.  “Sare’sora gave me what I ordered, too.  I intend to make the most of this experience.  Very shortly I will be ready to be ravaged.  Repeatedly.”

T'Pol had heard more than enough.  She switched off the translator and lay still for a long moment, trying to control her inexplicably ragged breathing.  Horror drew for her the dinosaur-creatures quarrelling over the dead hind – their sharp, ripping claws, their serrated teeth.  The Human – Commander Tucker – Charles – Trip!, drugged and exhausted, flung down to fight a losing battle for his life while a baying audience looked on, cheering his dreadful fate as a fitting punishment for his crimes.

There was no time now to indulge in rage, however.  She had to get the commander out of here by any means possible.  If the worst came to the worst, and their escape was foiled, she resolved to kill him herself: it would be far quicker and more merciful than what awaited him otherwise.  Deliberately she picked up the phase pistol and changed the setting.  Then she crept out from beneath the bed and looked around for what else she needed.  On a table nearby a lush pile of fruit spilled out of a bowl.  A silver knife lay beside it, doubtless for use in removing peel or stones.  A flickering glare of lightning lit up the blade before plunging the room once more into darkness.

Muted lamplight in the next apartment showed that the single guard was still sitting in the same place, with his back to the dividing canvas wall.  To judge by his shadow, he was wearing no armor.  She waited for the beginning of the blast of thunder that followed the lightning bolt before inserting the knife-point into the canvas behind the guard; perhaps only the long stern training of her early years on Vulcan prevented her from thrusting it right through and into his unguarded back.  As soon as the rent was long enough her free hand snaked through to seize the base of his neck: the man had been dozing and had not had time to react to the sound behind him.  Had the thunder been less deafening the sound of his slithering fall would surely have been audible in the main compartment of the tent, but raucous laughter there showed that the women’s attention was diverted anyway.

The peal lasted just long enough for her to lengthen the rip sufficiently to slip through it.  She flung a wary glance at the heavy piece of fabric that divided the apartment from the rest of the tent, and then looked at the bed – a similar one to that in the room she had just left, except that it had a gagged human male tied down on it.

His hands were bound to the bedstead at the top corners, but his legs were free.  He had signified his extreme displeasure at his situation by kicking vigorously at any of the bedclothes he could reach.  Most were on the floor, but one had dropped partly across his face and was currently resisting his efforts to knock it away.  When he saw her arrive he stopped and stared at her.  In the lamplight it was visible that his Starfleet uniform was rolled up on the floor beside him; she bent quickly and checked that both communicators were still safely in the pockets.  Then she turned to him and reached for the gag – but as she met his gaze she suddenly paused.

He had been drugged, of course: the pupil of that one visible eye was dilated.  But how electrifyingly blue the iris of it was: how intense the quality of his stare!  She hesitated, watching his gaze rake down the length of her body in a way that he would never have done on Enterprise; illogically, she felt suddenly as though her uniform were made of glass.  The muscles in his arms bunched and he planted his heels on the bed to perform a physical movement that was as eloquent as it was violent.

“I am here to rescue you, Commander,” she said in a low voice, crouching down beside him.  “When I release you, you must co-operate with me.  You have been drugged and you are in grave danger.”

It was probably fortunate that the women outside would have become familiar with the sound of an agitated Human pitting his strength against the structure of the bed.  It was singularly unfortunate that his reaction showed T'Pol all too clearly that once he was released there was only one activity in which she could command his full and enthusiastic co-operation.  She doubted whether he actually recognised her at all: all he recognised was her gender.  Escape would be problematic enough without being attempted while one participant was continually trying to mount the other.

In that moment T'Pol of Vulcan realised that – vexatious and demeaning as it might be – their only hope of survival lay in her ability to act.  No part of her extensive education had included drama coaching, but then given the quality of the performances in the dreadful old ‘horror’ films which inexplicably afforded him such entertainment, Trip Tucker was hardly the best judge of dramatic talent.  She pushed the cloth away from his face, inadvertently exposing herself to the double effect of those hypnotically blue eyes, and brought her face close to his.  “I want to mate with you,” she breathed.  “But Vulcans do not mate inside a tent.  We have to be outside.  The rain excites us.”

For some reason that evidently struck a powerful chord with him.  He moaned aloud.  It was probably just as well that the one remaining fur he had not succeeded in kicking off was preserving at least some of his modesty, but it certainly didn’t conceal his enthusiasm for the idea.  Flushing slightly at the observation, the science officer refused to admit even to herself that acting this part wasn’t nearly as difficult as she had imagined; if she hadn’t been so superbly mentally disciplined, it might even have occurred to her to wonder if she was altogether acting.

“We must be quiet,” she whispered.  “The aliens want to keep you from me.”  (Even the Bride of Frankenstein hadn’t had dialog this dire, she thought to herself.)

A violent head-shake.  He glanced up at his bound wrists.

The knots were secure, but his struggles had made them looser than they had been originally.  She used the tip of the knife to drag the cords loose and soon they fell free.  It was probably inevitable that as soon as his hands were released they began to act in a way that that suggested he seriously underestimated the danger of the situation.  She untied the cloth from around his face and removed the gag that it had held in his mouth last of all, and promptly had to slide away from a kiss that brushed the side of her cheekbone, leaving an inexplicable sensation of fire behind it.

“Not here,” she whispered.  “Outside.  In the storm.”  She picked up his uniform.  That must not be left behind, especially with the communicators in it.  He stood up, tossing aside the fur, and she hurriedly averted her gaze.  If she had been in the habit of thanking her lucky stars, she would have done so now at the discovery that the briefs were not rolled up with his overalls but still on him, though they were straining at the seams with the unaccustomed pressure.  She also snatched up one of the darker swathes of fabric he had kicked on to the floor; if they were to be travelling through the woods his semi-naked body would be dangerously visible, and though the night was not cold the teeming rain might still lower his temperature towards the threat of exposure.

His ankle appeared to have suffered injury.  It had been strapped tightly and professionally, however, and he seemed able to move on it well enough.  The woman had referred to ‘medicine’ so it seemed he had been given some kind of pain relief – these people evidently had some skill with drugs.  Otherwise, to outward appearances at least, he had taken no harm.  If they could get enough of a start there was a chance they might get back to the shuttlepod.  Once inside it they would be protected against virtually any assault, if by any ill fortune they were found.  Sooner or later the bird-people would get tired of waiting, the drug in Commander Tucker’s bloodstream would wear off, the storm would end, and they could return to Enterprise.  The hyrellanium could wait another day or two until they could be absolutely sure that nothing more sentient than a salad leaf was within forty kilometers of it.

They had no time for him to don his uniform, even if she could have made him understand the necessity,  but his boots – almost hidden under the bed close to where his overalls had been –  were a must.  One of them was intact, but the other had obviously been cut off his injured ankle.  She managed to coax him into putting them on, strapping the ruined one into place with the cloth that had kept the gag in his mouth.  Then she draped his uniform around her neck for ease of carrying and they were ready to leave.

The knife parted the tent seam easily.  Her first instinct was to go out first, but with him right behind her and behaving in a way that was not only highly inappropriate in a junior officer but also interfering badly with her ability to think clearly and logically, that would obviously be the worst of all possible moves.  She gestured to him to precede her.  Yesterday he’d been determined to do it out of some misguided Human chivalric impulse because he feared there might be danger; now that they really were in danger – very grave danger indeed – he baulked, presumably suspecting that she was trying to get rid of him.  She controlled her irritation.  “The rain,” she breathed.  “Out in the rain!”

“Wherever you want it, sweetheart.”  His voice was a low, sensuous rumble in her ear.  “I’ll be waitin’ for you out there.”  He bent and slipped through the gap.

With a last look around she slipped through it too, and joined him.  At that point she discovered that in his drugged state he imagined that she had meant her words literally.  The instant she straightened up she was seized, and this time he was not going to take no for an answer.  His mouth came down on hers, his arms went around her, and for several dizzyingly risky seconds she so far forgot everything as to stand there with him in open view of whoever might walk past while his warm tongue slowly explored her mouth and her legs turned to butter underneath her.

The lightning flashed again, and fear for him brought her back to her senses with a sickening snap.  “Not here!” she croaked.  “Not yet!” She shook out the cloth and threw it around him.  “They might find us – we have to find somewhere to hide!”

“Hide,” he repeated uncomprehendingly, trying to catch hold of her again as she slipped from his grasp with a supple twist.  “Do you know how beautiful you are?”

“You can tell me everything when we reach safety.”  She took hold of one of the hands that tried to detain her and began to lead him between the tents.  The sentry should be still unconscious by now; she could only hope that anyone else braving the rain would see only two shrouded and anonymous figures.  Anxiety screamed at her to run, logic told her to walk.  She obeyed logic, and Commander Tucker followed, though from time to time he leaned forward over her shoulder and whispered promises that turned the tips of her ears jade with embarrassment.

The camp had settled down for the evening meal and a long night’s boredom.  Nobody emerged from the tents.  From one the notes of some kind of stringed musical instrument made a valiant if somewhat ludicrous effort to compete with the peals of thunder for attention.

They reached the edge of the camp and slipped in among the trees, unnoticed and unchallenged.  There was hardly anything as definite as a path, more like a deer-trail that wove between the trees, but it was the best guide they had.  Above their heads the branches whipped and thrashed.  All around them the near-darkness was full of sound and half-seen movement, except during those instants when the white glare of the lightning brought the scene into stark relief and revealed a tangle of bushes swaying and rustling in the wind.

Suddenly the brassy note of a horn split the night behind them.  Again and again it sounded.  A babble of voices answered; individual cries were discernable even at this distance – a scream that was surely ‘Find him, you fools!’ came over clearly.

“Run!” said T'Pol urgently.  She seized the commander’s wrist and began dragging him.  The increased pace told on his injured ankle, however.  Almost at once he began to stumble.  Soon whimpers of pain escaped between his locked teeth; but the pursuit was on, and it would require minimal powers of deduction on his captors’ part to realise that the escapee would almost certainly be heading back to where he had been captured.

They kept on for a couple of hundred meters before they heard shouts behind them.  Moments later they knew they had been seen.  The cold finger of awareness had penetrated even the drugged haze in Commander Tucker’s brain by now.  She was no longer having to drag him, and snatched glances at his face showed dawning bewilderment.  His ankle would no longer serve him for running; when they stopped he leaned heavily on her shoulder, his breath labouring in his chest.

The pursuit was closing fast.  They were not going to make it.  The watercourse was very close to them now, and with some illogical thought of perhaps snatching one last look at the stars if the clouds parted before the end she pulled him off the path and pushed a way through the bushes to where the water gleamed in its wide stone bed.  At least there if a tiny chink of sky showed they would see it.

They stopped on a stone ledge at the edge of the gully, almost opposite a huge pale wedge of rock dimly visible in the darkness, resting across a deep narrow channel in midstream where the storm runoff boiled.  The hunt was very close on their heels, but she could not bring herself even now to turn the pistol on the dozens of pursuers.  She would not be able to keep them all at bay, there were too many of them, and using the weapon repeatedly would focus their attention on it far too closely.  After the one use she needed it for she could hurl it out into the channel in the hope that it would be lost.  Goodbye, Trip.  His face looking down at her was drawn with exhaustion and confusion, but the trust in it tore at her.  She turned to slip into his arms again and raised her face for his kisses; they both pretended that it was the drug on his part and the knowledge of farewell on hers.  As their lips met passionately, her left hand slid into her pocket for the phase pistol.  He would never open his eyes again to see his death coming.

“STAY RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE!”  The loudspeaker was almost as loud as the thunder and infinitely more shocking.  Twin headlights of astonishing brilliance ignited at the front end of the wedge of rock, transfixing the figures converging on the entwined officers.  The voice was unmistakably English, but it needed no translator to convey a world of menace. 

“Quickly!”  The Vulcan broke away from the embrace and helped her companion hobble painfully across the stones towards the shuttlepod.  Behind them a few bolder souls than most made some tentative movement after them.  In response the shuttle’s engines woke to life, building to an almost animal howl.  It was too much.  The crowd broke and ran, dodging in among the trees and bushes with cries of terror that the God had come to punish them all.  They fled headlong towards the camp, and it was questionable if even that proximity would be considered safe enough.  The chances were that it would be long into the night before the last of them stopped running.

An angular gleam of more subdued light showed on the side of the ‘rock’ as the shuttlepod’s door opened.  “Anybody want a lift?” asked the quiet, glad voice of Captain Archer, who was already reaching out to give them any help they might need.

“I believe we require one with some urgency, Captain.”  She felt the commander’s bewilderment as the drug in his system battled against returning reality.  He lurched to his knees, grabbing at the lip of the door, and she knew that there was one thing she could do to protect his dignity now.  Her fingers slid almost tenderly to the base of his neck.  By the time he recovered consciousness Dr Phlox would have him safe in Sickbay and his condition would be stabilised.

“Trip?  What’s wrong?”  Archer’s voice sharpened with alarm as he saw his friend fall.

“There is nothing to fear, Captain.  I believe the commander has only fainted.”  She lifted the unconscious chief engineer in her arms and hoisted him into the shuttlepod.  “The past couple of hours have been extremely stressful to him, but apart from an injury to his ankle I believe he is generally unharmed.”  She stepped up into the hatchway herself.  “Is there any news of Ensign McKenna?”

“He survived.  He’ll be on the sick list for a while, but Phlox says he’ll pull through.”  A huge grin of relief spread across the captain’s face as he closed the door, and he clasped her shoulders in an unusual demonstration of welcome: he was always aware of her dislike of casual physical contact.  “There are some emergency blankets in one of the lockers.  Get yourself out of those wet clothes before you catch your death.  We promise not to peek.”  He released her and began to manoeuvre Tucker’s unconscious form into the recovery position.  “And get one for Trip while you’re at it.  He’s frozen.  This is some faint.”

“Welcome back, Sub-commander.”  Malcolm was at the helm.  His expression was studiedly bland.  The headlights had been full on, and he had excellent eyesight; but he also knew when to keep his mouth shut.

“Lieutenant Reed.  I am surprised to see you.”

“Just a short hop, Sub-commander.  Ensign Mayweather brought us down to Shuttlepod One and he’s flying it back now that the storm’s blowing itself out.  He apparently thought I could be trusted with this one over a short distance – just in case you might need any help.”

She inclined her head as she brought out the warm blankets.  “You came in what I believe is called ‘the nick of time’.”

“You’ve been to too many movie nights.”  Archer grinned, taking one of the coverings from her to drape over his friend’s body.  “Get us out of here, Malcolm.”

As the familiar note of the engines accompanied the smooth lift of the craft away from the river bed, T'Pol quietly stripped off her saturated robe and suit.  Now she finally had time to inspect the wounds in her leg.  Perhaps it was as well that she had never had the opportunity to do so before.  The bite was inflamed and the swelling below it was increasing.  She trusted that Dr Phlox would have time to spare from his supervision of Ensign McKenna’s recovery to quickly put right whatever damage the tree-dweller had inflicted.  Her duties would be extremely difficult to carry out with maximum efficiency if she were to be confined to Sickbay for any length of time.

The blanket was warm from proximity to the engines.  There was something almost voluptuous in the sensation of its softness enfolding her bare body that brought back disturbing memories of Commander Tucker’s arms enfolding her.  Other associated memories must be sternly repressed.  She had done what logic dictated had to be done – no more, no less.  She had rescued a valued Starfleet officer.  Enterprise needed its chief engineer, despite his unfortunate addiction to a dessert with an unhealthy sugar content and a worse one for the flesh of a singularly unattractive fish cooked in saturated fat, not to mention his lamentable taste in entertainment.  Crew morale would have been badly affected by his loss.  Certainly Captain Archer would have mourned him deeply.

And she herself?  How would his loss have affected her?  Was it only the effect it would have had on the efficient running of the ship?  Could it be something to do with that impertinent but oddly endearing grin that she had somehow grown accustomed to; could it be something to do with how extremely blue his eyes were, and how utterly natural it had felt during those seconds the two of them had stood entwined, kissing as though the rest of the world had ceased to exist?

She glanced up almost furtively at the two other men sharing the shuttlepod with her.  Lieutenant Reed was busy with the controls, balancing the craft’s flight on the still lively winds as he made for a clear landing site out on the plain where they could wait for half an hour or so until the turbulence in the upper atmosphere subsided a bit further.  Ensign Mayweather had been confident enough to brave it, but Reed was not quite so experienced at the helm and had no wish to endanger himself and his passengers for want of a little patience.  Captain Archer was still watching Trip, keeping the blanket tucked around him and waiting for him to regain consciousness.  Possibly he suspected that this was indeed no ordinary faint.  At some point she was going to have to report to him on what had happened down here during those missing hours.  He was intelligent and perceptive; he would probably guess that she was not telling him everything, but somehow she could not face dragging these murky uncertainties out into the clear light of an official report. 

A great deal would depend on how much Commander Tucker recalled when he revived.  With any luck almost everything would have gone from his mind with the drug.  Even if he did remember anything of significance, surely he would understand that she had been as much a victim of circumstance as he had himself.  He was not unintelligent, nor ungentlemanly.  He would not take advantage.  Hopefully he would never refer to any of it again.  Possibly he would even just dismiss it as just another episode in his varied love life, she thought, and was surprised by how painful the idea was.  But painful or not, that was probably the best way to deal with it.  A past incident.  Over and closed. 

But his eyes were astonishingly blue.