Liaison

Chapter 1

Rating: R, for an intense interrogation scene in Chapter 4. PG-13 otherwise.

Genre: Action/Drama

Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

Summary: T'Pol receives orders to serve as a liaison officer aboard a Vulcan warship.

Takes place four months after the season four episode 'Terra Prime', placing it somewhere in a mythical season five. It's mildly AU, since in my universe, T'Pol and Trip have been a couple since just after the season four episode 'Home' (See my story 'The Commissioning'). Other than that, there are no departures from the season four story lines.

Note: The Vulcan Dictionary at http://www.starbase-10.de/vld/ is the source of all Vulcan words in this story. The exceptions are a couple of archaic Vulcan terms, which I made up.

PROLOGUE
Romulus, 12 Oct 2155

"I've heard enough," Admiral Milell said, interrupting Commander Vonus with an abrupt wave of his hand. "Another variation on the same failed schemes. Commander, please state the mission of this committee."

Vonus gulped and suppressed a nervous twitch. "Sir, our mission is to devise a means to obtain tactical-level intelligence on Vulcan fleet capabilities and vulnerabilities."

"You are almost correct, Commander," Admiral Milell said. His tone was mild, that of a teacher correcting a wayward student, but the look in his eyes left no doubt of his displeasure. "You left out the word 'quickly'. We are to 'quickly' devise a means. Every plan I've heard today is more of the same: Infiltrate the Vulcan fleet with covert agents, as if we haven't already tried that numerous times. You have all been blinded by our prior successes placing agents inside the Vulcan High Command. You think Vulcan fleet security is as incompetent as High Command security? I assure you, it's not."

Milell stood and paced the perimeter of the table, around which the officers assigned to his committee sat, trying to be invisible. "I was hoping at least one of you would show some imagination. Some capacity for independent thought. Clearly my hopes were misplaced."

He paused his pacing, resting his hands on the back of a chair. The occupant of that chair cringed and sank lower into the seat. "Fortunately, I have thought of a way to obtain the intelligence needed by the War Plans Council in a reasonable time frame," Milell said. "We will capture a Vulcan warship and its crew. We will take that warship apart and learn all its secrets. We will do the same to its crew..."

ONE
Enterprise, 8 May 2155

The volleyball reached the top of its arc, and Trip followed its descent with satisfaction. A perfect set. He grinned as he prepared to deliver one of his killer spikes. On the other side of the net, T'Pol also eyed the ball, face impassive. They both jumped at the same moment, and although Trip had an eight inch height advantage, T'Pol's hand intercepted the ball first. She gave it a gentle tap, and the ball was sent along a new path, bouncing off the deck behind Trip. His grin morphed into a startled expression, and the groans of his teammates were mixed with jeers from across the net. "Omigawd, sir, she TOASTED you!"

Trip retrieved the ball and tossed it over the net for the next serve. "Point to Ops. Four serving two." He clapped his hands, "C'mon Engineering, we need that ball back." He pointed at T'Pol, trying to ignore the smirks of her teammates. "You're eatin' the next one."

She looked back in that guileless manner she had, one eyebrow cocked. Not fair, Trip thought, She's deliberately trying to distract me with her 'Vulcan eyes'. She's so damn cute when she does that; she knows I can't resist.

Both sides were preparing for the next serve when the Captain's voice came over the shipboard address system, "Senior officers, report to the ready room."

T'Pol and Trip exchanged glances. "Sorry, folks," Trip said, "duty calls." T'Pol joined him and they both headed for the ready room. Behind them, the two sides exchanged good-natured barbs.

"Hey, Ops. You were saved by the bell. We were just gettin' ready to kick some butt."

"Who was kicking whose butt? You can't even count. Typical snipes."

"Deck apes."

"Grease monkeys."

"Swab jockeys."

"Knuckle draggers."

The door closed behind them, cutting off further banter. T'Pol glanced at Trip, "I 'toasted' you."

Trip had to grin. "Yes, and I'm sure you enjoyed every second of it."

She gave him her Vulcan eyes again. "Vulcans do not enjoy the 'toasting' of others. What I did was in your best interest, to prevent you from developing a 'big head'."

Trip chuckled, "Big head, huh? You're getting pretty good with human vernacular."

"I have little choice, since I am constantly bombarded with it. In any event, I find your colorful expressions interesting. They are quite a contrast to Vulcan speech."

"I'll bet." He looked up and down the passageway to make sure they were alone, then took her hand into his. Even though they were recently married, Starfleet still frowned on public displays of affection. As soon as their hands touched, he was flooded with the warmth of her presence. He sent a non-verbal message: *Tell the truth. You enjoyed showing me up in front of my men.*

*I cannot lie to my bond-mate. It was... satisfying. I will require an extra measure of meditation tonight to purge my amusement.*

Trip leered at her. *There will be no meditation for you. Tonight, you must attend to the physical needs of your husband, whom you have been grievously neglecting.*

*You think four hours without physical intimacy is grievous neglect.*

*Is it my fault I can't get enough of you?* Trip protested. *I'm sorry to be such a burden, but you should have considered that before you agreed to marry me.*

T'Pol abandoned any attempt at jocularity and gazed directly into his eyes. *You are never a burden, my love. I am content.*

Trip's delight at her simple declaration was obvious, even without the bond. He fairly glowed with pleasure, and T'Pol basked in that glow. In all her years, she had never seen a relationship between Vulcans that approached what she shared with Trip. It is not logical and I can not understand why. I can only accept it.

They released hands as they approached the turbolift, and waited in comfortable silence for the doors to open. The lift took them to Deck A, where the Captain and the other senior officers were waiting in the ready room.

"Evening, Captain," Trip said. He spotted two adjacent seats at the table and slid into one. T'Pol occupied the other.

Captain Archer nodded at them, noticing their athletic attire. "How'd the volleyball match turn out?"

"Operations took the first set, twenty-five to twenty," Trip replied. "The second set had just started when you called us to the ready room. You interrupted Engineering's big rally."

"The way I hear it, Ops is unbeatable," Archer said, deadpan. "They have a secret weapon named Commander T'Pol."

Trip snorted. "Strictly speaking, Commander T'Pol is First Officer, and therefore not part of the Operations Department. I should file a formal complaint."

"I am also the Science Officer," T'Pol stated, "and Science Division is part of Operations... strictly speaking." She favored Trip with an especially wide-eyed, innocent version of her 'Vulcan eyes'.

Trip threw his hands up in mock surrender. "Okay, have it your way. Engineering will still beat Ops, secret weapon or not."

Archer watched the interplay between his two most senior officers, and marveled again at how much they had changed. T'Pol, once the prim and proper Vulcan, was no longer just an observer of life aboard Enterprise, but a willing participant. Playing volleyball. Attending movie night. Eating finger foods with her hands. She even engaged, however clumsily, in the small talk and banter that passed between shipmates. As for his Chief Engineer, he had regained the fun-loving, devil-may-care attitude that had been his calling card before the triple tragedies of his sister's death, the losses suffered by Enterprise in the Expanse, and the death of his cloned daughter. Despite Archer's initial misgivings at having a husband-wife pair aboard his ship, he was now glad of it. Clearly, Trip and T'Pol were good for each other.

Archer picked up a PADD from the table in front of him. It was time to get down to business. "I've just received new orders from Starfleet. We are to rendezvous with a Vulcan combat cruiser, the Ki'Vaar, and exchange liaison officers. These liaison officers will observe operations on their respective ships for a period of three months, after which they will report to a commission to help write the first draft of a Standard Operating Procedure for joint Starfleet-Vulcan operations. This SOP will cover all aspects of joint operations: Planning, command and control, communications, intelligence, training, logistics, and maintenance. With the Romulans trying to destabilize the entire region, I shouldn't have to tell anyone here how important this is. The closer we can work with the Vulcans, the more effective we'll be in combat."

There was a stir of barely-suppressed excitement around the table as Archer spelled out their orders, "We will rendezvous with Ki'Vaar in approximately eighteen hours. The Vulcan liaison will be given access to ALL areas of the ship, and will not require an escort. That includes the armory and weapons systems, Mr. Reed."

Malcolm's lips tightened, but he nodded in agreement.

"I expect everyone to be professional, polite, and to answer his questions as best they can. Just remember, he is an observer, not a member of the crew. He can look, but not touch. Don't take orders from him, and don't give him your access codes. Any problems will be brought to me or Commander Tucker."

He continued, "I've been given some guidelines on how to select our liaison to the Vulcans." Everyone shifted eagerly in their seats, except for Trip and T'Pol, who both gave Archer a wary look. That figures, Archer thought, the one officer I have to send is the only one not champing at the bit to go.

Archer read the desired qualifications from the PADD: "The liaison officer must be a commissioned officer, above the rank of Lieutenant, with operational experience in communications, weapons, and propulsion systems, and significant command time on the bridge of a starship. Ability to speak Vulcan is a plus."

All eyes turned to T'Pol.

"Sorry, Commander," Archer said to her, "I hate to send you on a ninety-day mission so soon after your wedding, but you're clearly the most qualified."

Beneath the table, T'Pol touched Trip on the arm. *We will be separated, but not apart.*

*Never apart,* Trip agreed.

T'Pol nodded at Archer, "I will study the mission guidelines and review them with you at your convenience, Captain."

"Excellent," Archer said, thankful for T'Pol's quick acquiescence, "In the meantime, you are relieved of your other duties. Spend some time with your husband before you have to go."

"Not to worry, Captain. I'll see to that." Trip interjected.

"I'm sure you will," Archer said. There were smothered chuckles from around the table.

After taking care of a few routine matters of the 'while-I've-got-you here' variety, Archer dismissed his officers. On the way out, Lieutenant Reed touched Trip on the arm, "Commander, can we talk? Alone?" he asked, with a sidelong glance at T'Pol.

"I will be in our quarters, packing," T'Pol said.

Trip nodded, then turned his attention to the Lieutenant. "What's up, Malcolm?"

Malcolm waited until the passageway had cleared, trying not to fidget. "I need your advice."

"I've never had a shortage of that," Trip said, grinning. "If it's about engines, my advice is spot on. Anything else, you take your chances."

"I'll take my chances, then. It's about me and Hoshi."

Trip snorted. "Hoo-boy, you're taking a big chance."

"Not really. At this point, I'm just exploring options."

"Options, huh? Something tells me this could take a while. Coffee?"

Malcolm shook his head, "No, thanks. This shouldn't take long, really. You probably aren't aware of this, but Hoshi and I have started... spending time with each other."

"Malcolm? The whole ship is aware of that."

"Oh." Malcolm flushed deeply. "Well, we have tried to be, uh, circumspect."

Trip had to chuckle at Malcolm's distress. He remembered all too well his own clumsy attempts at concealing his initial relationship with T'Pol. "Malcolm, you of all people must realize there are no secrets on a starship."

"I suppose not."

"So, Malcolm, how can I help?"

"If we... Hoshi and I... uh... if we were to, uh, marry... how could we get Starfleet to let us both stay on Enterprise? Like you and T'Pol?"

Trip stared at his friend in surprise. "The two of you are already talking marriage? That's a little sudden, isn't it?"

"Actually, we're not--we haven't--discussed marriage. I told you, I'm just exploring options. Please, don't breathe a word of this to anyone. If this got back to Hoshi..."

"You would be dead meat. I know. Relax, your secret is safe with me."

"Thank you, Commander. So, hypothetically speaking, how could we stay together on Enterprise if--IF--we were to marry?"

Trip sighed. "Sorry, Malcolm, I don't think it's possible."

"Not good enough, Commander. You and T'Pol were able to do it. How?"

Trip considered his reply for several long moments. "Okay, Malcolm, I'll tell you. Just don't you breathe a word of this to anyone. It's a very sensitive subject with T'Pol and I don't want her to get hurt."

"Nor do I," Malcolm said, "I won't tell a soul."

"See that you don't." Trip paused to collect his thoughts. "The problem is Starfleet's policy prohibiting married couples in the same chain of command. The purpose is to prevent conflicts of interest or--more to the point--the appearance of conflicts of interest that might be prejudicial to good order and discipline."

"I'm aware of the intent of the policy, Commander. What I need to know is how to find a loophole."

"I'm getting to that," Trip said, "but I doubt if you'll find it helpful. The solution was to convince Starfleet that splitting us up was a bigger risk than keeping us together. Once they were convinced, they granted an exception to policy."

"Yes, yes, Commander. But HOW? How did you convince them?" Malcolm's frustration was palpable.

"Uh, do you know what pon farr is?"

"Of course," Malcolm replied, "the Vulcan mating process. It happens every seven years."

"Yes. It's very, uh, intense. If you know what I mean."

Malcolm reflected back to an incident three years prior, when an infection had sent T'Pol into a premature pon farr cycle. "I remember," he said. Indeed, he remembered all too vividly: A scantily clad T'Pol, hurling herself at him and begging--demanding--to be bedded... With an effort, he pulled his thoughts back to the present.

Trip continued his explanation. "We presented Starfleet with a scenario. A married senior officer goes into pon farr while on an extended mission, and she MUST mate with another person--not her husband--or she dies." Trip chuckled. "That's not exactly going to foster 'good order and discipline.' Starfleet decided they'd rather have us serving together than risk that nightmare scenario."

Malcolm blinked.

"I told you it wouldn't be very helpful," Trip said.

"You were right. I doubt Starfleet will believe Hoshi is at risk of pon farr." He tried to suppress his disappointment, then another thought occurred to him, "So, who do you know in the Bureau of Personnel? You must have been pretty confident they would grant an exception before you and T'Pol were married. Maybe they can pull some strings for me?"

Trip shook his head. "Sorry, I don't know anyone at BuPers. Got lots of friends at BuShips, though."

"You were taking a rather big chance, weren't you? What if Starfleet had separated you?"

"Then one or both of us would have resigned."

Malcolm looked surprised, and Trip had to smile at his friend's discomfiture. "You asked for my advice, Malcolm, so here it is: If you aren't prepared to resign from Starfleet in order to be with Hoshi, then you probably shouldn't be thinking of marrying her."

Malcolm considered that for a moment. "It's not what I wanted to hear, but it's good advice. I'll give it some thought."

"Do that. In the meantime, I have some unfinished business to attend to before that Vulcan ship arrives." Trip winked at Malcolm and strolled down the passageway.

Malcolm watched as he left. Vivid images of T'Pol going through pon farr came unbidden to his mind. "Lucky stiff," he muttered to himself.

Trip headed straight to the quarters he shared with T'Pol, smiling with anticipation. He was mildly surprised to find her missing, but reasoned she had loose ends to tie up elsewhere. In the meantime, he busied himself by getting her bags and laying out her clothing. The faster she packs, the more time we'll have for us.

He had finished with the clothing, and was starting to collect personal items T'Pol might need when the door slid open. T'Pol entered the room carrying a stack of folded Starfleet duty uniforms.

"I went to supply to get uniforms," she announced.

"Thanks, darlin', but my old uniforms are still good."

"They are for me, not you."

Trip's eyebrows went up. "Since when do you wear Starfleet issue?"

"I will be representing Starfleet, so I thought it would be appropriate to wear Starfleet uniforms. Also, Vulcan ships are warmer than human ships, so I will be comfortable even with the thinner material."

Trip took the stack of uniforms and set them with the other clothes. "Plus, you'll look fabulous in them," he said, grinning. "But then, you look fabulous in anything."

T'Pol nodded agreement, then busied herself placing clothes in her bags.

Uh-oh, Trip thought, Something's bugging her. "T'Pol, are you okay?"

"I am fine."

The standard T'Pol answer. She'd say 'I am fine' if her hair was on fire. Trip reached over and touched her arm. *T'Pol, what's wrong?*

She stopped packing and sat on the edge of the bed. *I will not be welcome on the Vulcan ship.*

Trip sat beside her, taking her hand between both of his. *Maybe not right away, but once they get to know you, they will come to accept you.*

*You do not understand. I am anathema to most Vulcans. They believe I have abandoned Vulcan principles and Vulcan culture. The more they know of me, the more it will confirm what they already believe.*

*So, let them believe what they will. You and I both know the truth.*

*I am concerned that their perceptions of me will affect the mission; that they will not be forthcoming with the information and access I need to succeed. Captain Archer has placed his trust in me and I do not want to disappoint him.* T'Pol's thoughts came to Trip in a rush, swept along by an undercurrent of apprehension.

Ah, there's the problem. Her overactive Vulcan sense of duty has kicked in. *Looks to me like you're having an anxiety attack,* Trip sent, teasingly. He waited for her reflexive denial.

*Vulcans do not have anxiety attacks.*

*Of course not,* Trip agreed. *In any event, if you don't get the information you need because the Vulcans won't cooperate, it's not your failure. It's theirs. Nobody on this ship will think any less of you, and who cares what the Vulcans think?*

*They are my people, Trip. Imagine the situation was reversed, and you had to choose between your people and me.*

*I would choose you.*

*As I chose you. But the choice would cause you some degree of anguish, would it not?*

Trip had to agree that it would. I guess I never fully realized the price T'Pol has paid for her choices. After her first couple of years on Enterprise, she could have had a promotion and her pick of duty assignments. The sky was the limit, but she gave it all up to accompany Enterprise into the expanse, on a risky mission with little chance of success. Instead of the praise and admiration she deserves, she gets scorn and condemnation from her own countrymen.

*Sounds like you could use some meditation. Traditional or express?* Trip asked.

*There will be plenty of time for traditional meditation on the Ki'Vaar. For now, I would enjoy one of your 'express' meditations.*

*One express meditation coming up,* Trip sent with a grin. T'Pol snuggled into his arms and closed her eyes.

With practiced ease, Trip slipped into her mental landscape, and located the emotions that were unbalancing her. They were not hard to find. He gathered them up, absorbing them as a sponge absorbs water: apprehension over her mission; sadness, tinged with anger, at the disdain of her people.

There were a few other, lesser emotions: A surge of irritation at a piece of toast that had fallen from her tray that morning; impatience with a crewman who was late for duty; and some very unvulcan-like pleasure at winning the volleyball match. He absorbed those, as well.

He dealt with the emotions in an instinctively human manner, prioritizing them, attenuating their impact, and helping T'Pol integrate them back into her orderly Vulcan mind. Then he gently restored her essence to her newly-balanced emotional center. He had accomplished in moments what would have taken T'Pol nearly an hour of solitary meditation. It was indeed 'express'.

T'Pol was continually amazed at Trip's facility for handling raw emotions. Like most Vulcans, she lacked the human's perspective, the lifetime of experience that allowed him to distinguish the trivial emotions from the powerful. To her, they were equally difficult to suppress, and almost as dangerous if left unattended.

T'Pol opened her eyes, enjoying the feeling of peace and serenity that was the aftermath of meditation. She made no effort to move, being content for the moment in his embrace. *Thank you, Trip.*

*My pleasure, darlin'.*

Trip, for his part, was inordinately proud of his ability to facilitate T'Pol's meditation. In fact, he might have been quite insufferable, had it not been for the assistance he was receiving from T'Pol with regard to his own mind. He could well remember his embarrassment the first time she had remarked on the confused and chaotic nature of his thoughts. She had openly marveled that such an undisciplined mind was capable of coherent thought, much less higher-order thinking. She had offered to help him improve his mental functions.

At first, he had needed some persuading to overcome a fear of being turned into an emotionless Vulcan zombie (his words), but he had to admit the effort was paying off. Under T'Pol's careful tutelage, he was slowly (slowly!) learning to apply structure to his thoughts and bring order to the chaos. His memory was better, his thoughts clearer, and his mind sharper.

In addition to mental discipline, T'Pol also schooled Trip in the intricacies of Vulcan language and philosophy, which gave him insights into their culture, and--an added benefit--helped him understand some of the more perplexing traits of his wife. Trip returned the favor by teaching T'Pol how to tell jokes (with varying degrees of success).

"Computer, play music, playlist Tucker-oh-three, volume low, random shuffle." Trip intoned. Soft music filled the room.

"Computer, dim lights," Trip said.

The lights dimmed, and T'Pol tilted her head to look at Trip, her eyes glinting in the room's soft glow. *If this is a precursor to an intimate interlude, I should remind you I have not finished packing, and I must still review the mission parameters with the Captain.*

Trip snorted. "Well that threw a wet blanket on my plans. I guess I'll go take a cold shower while you do your duty."

He began to stand up, but T'Pol stopped him with a touch of her hand. "Perhaps I have a duty to my husband as well..." She murmured, kissing him on the cheek.

Trip responded eagerly. For once, he had no complaints about her Vulcan sense of duty.