Broken Bow - Diane Carey [30]
Trip Tucker had the distinct displeasure of working side by side with the Vulcan female at the sensor data station in main engineering. Still, it gave him a chance to see what she knew, just how much of a token she was in practice. That Vulcans had a strong science base in their education and also their natural predilections couldn’t be denied. Hiding a spy as a science officer became the convenient and most obvious trick. There was too much about this woman that was just plain obvious.
Working made Tucker feel better. No matter what they did, he hadn’t been able to find any systems failure or fall-off. The intruders had flickered the power flow just enough to do what they wanted to do—steal the Klingon—then let everything come back without damage. No damage at all.
Why would they go to all the trouble of figuring out the technology, the security system, sneaking aboard, hiding themselves, shutting down the power, finding a prisoner, stealing him, and sneaking back off the ship, and go to the extra bother of not hurting or breaking anything? You’d have to work at that.
“How about this?” he pointed at the newest flush of data on the sensors.
“It’s just background noise,” the Vulcan’s monotone voice stated. “Your sensors aren’t capable of isolating plasma decay.”
“How can you be so damned sure what our sensors can do?”
“Vulcan children play with toys that are more sophisticated.”
Tucker stopped what he was doing and took a moment to reflect on this, which was just a plain fake-out. She knew better, and worse—she knew he knew better. Either she was playing, or enjoying another insult.
“Y’know,” he began, fed up, “some people say you Vulcans do nothing but patronize us, but if they were here now ... if they could see how far you’re bending over backward to help me ... they’d eat their words.”
Her dark eyes barely registered that he had said anything at all. “Your captain’s mission was to return the Klingon to his people. He no longer has the Klingon.”
“I realize he’s only a simple Earthling,” Tucker responded acridly, “but did it ever occur to you that he might know what he’s doing?”
She was silent. Of course, he’d put her in a bad position. Even impolite Vulcans knew better than to openly criticize a commanding officer’s decision before that decision had played out. At least not too much.
Tucker laid off the snide tone and tried something else. “It’s no secret Starfleet hasn’t been around too long ... God knows you remind us of it every chance you get, but does that mean the man who’s been put in charge of this mission doesn’t deserve our support?” He waited a moment to see if his words got a rise out of her. “Then again,” he added resentfully, “loyalty’s an emotion, isn’t it?”
She looked at him, and he could tell a response was forming—what would she say? Under that stony facade and the gloss of having a “mission” of her own, what did she really think of Jonathan Archer? He knew, of course, what she’d been told, probably all her life, about humans and Starfleet and Earth culture, because she parroted it mightily. Still, anybody or any race who didn’t embrace something new—new people and relationships—would eventually just sit down and finish dying.
Before she could say anything, though, Captain Archer stalked in, obviously annoyed and impatient.
Who could blame him?
“Any luck?” he demanded.
Tucker glanced at the Vulcan. “Not really.”
T’Pol had a longer version. “My analysis of the spatial disturbance Mr. Reed saw indicates a stealth vessel with a tricyclic plasma drive.”
“If we can figure out the decay rate of their plasma,” Tucker said, “we’ll be able to find their warp trail.”
“Unfortunately your sensors weren’t designed to measure plasma decay.”
Both men looked at her with varying degrees of resentment. She didn’t mean the “unfortunately” part.
Tucker didn’t make any comment. But the new communications officer