Last Full Measure - Michael A. Martin [33]
And as the blackness and stench and shivers finally overwhelmed him, he heard her voice again, accusing and hurt:
“You’ll never see me again, Trip.”
“I apologize for disturbing your rest, Ensign Mayweather,” T’Pol said. “You were resting, weren’t you?”
Travis Mayweather tried to maintain his composure, but he was too tired to be certain he was succeeding. And the unfamiliar surroundings—specifically the state-of-the-art, monitor-screen-festooned command center that Starfleet had recently installed in what had formerly been B deck’s storage bay for conduit housings—were anything but soothing.
“Yes, ma’am,” Mayweather said with a nervous smile. “Was there something else I was supposed to be doing?”
T’Pol tilted her head, clearly not amused. “You were in Commander Tucker’s quarters when I summoned you. Since he is incapacitated in sickbay, I have no idea what you were doing.”
Mayweather could see that his attempt at easygoing charm had fallen completely flat. Am I in some sort of trouble? he wondered, though he was at a loss as to why that might be. By his own reckoning, he had been off duty when the sub-commander had called him to the bridge, and his next shift wasn’t due to start for another several hours.
Then he realized that his use of Commander Tucker’s quarters was the issue.
“I didn’t think Commander Tucker would mind me using his quarters for a little while, and neither did the quartermaster,” he said, and immediately winced at how callous he must have sounded; after all, he sincerely hoped that Commander Tucker, Ensign Sato, and everyone else who’d been affected by the latest spatial anomaly would make speedy recoveries.
In a more formal tone, he added, “Sub-Commander, because of some recent MACO duty-roster changes, my own sleeping quarters were…temporarily unavailable.”
T’Pol nodded. “I see.” It occurred to Mayweather that she must have known about every reassignment of shipboard living space that the quartermaster made. Perhaps she merely enjoyed seeing human junior officers squirm. “Do you feel you’ve had enough rest to be effective on an off-ship mission, Ensign?”
That question was surprising enough to jolt Mayweather to full alertness. “What? A mission? You bet. I mean, yes, ma’am.” Not only would an off-ship assignment break up the monotony of the last several interminable weeks, but it just might put millions of kilometers between himself and Corporal Chang’s oppressive presence in Mayweather’s personal living space.
Before T’Pol could begin explaining the details of the upcoming assignment, the hatchway slid open and a quartet of parade-ground-ready MACOs stepped into the command center. As they turned, Mayweather felt his mounting excitement drop a notch. Corporal Chang was one of the four, along with Corporals Guitierrez and McCammon and Private Eby.
“Good evening,” T’Pol said by way of greeting. “I was just about to discuss the mission with Ensign Mayweather.”
“We’re ready for the mission briefing, ma’am,” Chang said crisply. Travis noted that the MACO hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge his presence. Might that mean that he had gotten on Chang’s nerves as much as Chang vexed him? He allowed himself to hope so.
“One of our long-range probes has found a quickly dissipating chemical trail that contains significant residual quantities of the fuel compound found on Earth in the wreckage of the first Xindi particle weapon.” T’Pol pointed to a data graph displayed on the command center’s master systems display console. “While it is certainly possible that non-Xindi ships might use this compound, given that it is one of the few leads that we have found thus far, we would be remiss not to follow up on it.”
“I agree,” Mayweather said, leaning against one of the room’s many bulkhead-mounted consoles. T’Pol looked at him blankly. Stupid. Why the hell did I say that? He