The Expanse - J.M. Dillard [45]
She had thought then of Vulcan history, of the savagery; of an ancient cave painting of a warrior who had shared the same burning look in his eyes. Until that day in the ready room, T’Pol had never seen in person the emotions that led to revenge.
“I’m aware of that,” she told Phlox.
“He’s having difficulty dealing with the loss,” the doctor confided, in a tone that conveyed admirable compassion.
“That’s to be expected,” T’Pol said. She had never experienced a violent death in her immediate family; even so, a Vulcan would deal with such a tragedy with far more equanimity. Humans—perhaps because they were shorter-lived, perhaps because of their philosophy—possessed a fear of death she had never understood, which was no doubt why they grieved more for their loved ones.
“More specifically,” Phlox added, slowly inching closer to the point, “it’s affecting his sleep. I’ve been giving him sedatives, but I’d like to see him start tapering off.”
He paused, leaving T’Pol uncertain; such a matter was between a patient and his physician. She did not see how she needed to be involved. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Phlox drew a breath, then at last stated his reason in calling T’Pol to sickbay. “I believe the Commander would be a fine candidate for Vulcan neuropressure.”
The Doctors reluctance to state his objective immediately suddenly made complete sense; the application of neuropressure required a great degree of physical contact—and the partial disrobing of the patient. Because of its exceptionally personal nature, it was not something Vulcans were eager to do—even for each other, much less a human.
In an effort to be diplomatic, T’Pol did not refuse the request outright. “I doubt the Commander would have the patience to sit in one place long enough to get through the first posture.”
“I’m certain with your delicate guidance ...” Phlox coaxed, his gaze one of pure charm. The Denobulan, T’Pol decided, would have made an excellent diplomat.
Flatly, she countered, “Delicate is not a word I associate with Mister Tucker.”
The Doctor merely continued to look at her with his frank, open gaze. Words were unnecessary; he was thinking only of Commander Tucker’s good, and giving T’Pol time to contemplate that fact.
The situation was hardly comfortable; T’Pol tried to explain her point of view, although she already sensed that hers was a losing battle. “The instruction of neuropressure is a very intimate act.”
Phlox’s expression showed that he was already well aware of the fact. “And he’s suffered a very intimate loss. He needs your help.”
T’Pol stood silently and considered this. If Commander Tucker truly needed her help, then she was ethically bound to supply it, regardless of the personal discomfort it might cause her. In fact, logic demanded she do so: Tucker was critical to their mission, therefore his well-being was of vital importance.
She let go an inaudible sigh and gazed at Phlox, who was leaning forward expectantly. “Have him come to my quarters at twenty-two hundred hours.”
She turned and headed for the door; Phlox’s voice stopped her.
“There’s one little problem,” the Doctor said, in a way that made T’Pol believe her level of discomfort was about to rise even more. She turned to face him.
Phlox’s expression was a bit wry. “Assuming that you’d agree to my request, I suggested all this to Commander Tucker earlier today.”
Motionless, T’Pol waited.
“He was ...”—Phlox paused, searching for the right words—“... less than enthusiastic.”
Clearly, the Doctor was expecting something else from her, but T’Pol could not deduce what he was hinting at. “I don’t understand,” she said.
“Perhaps if I could get him to go to your quarters tonight ... say twenty-two hundred hours ... you might be able to convince him of the lasting benefits of Vulcan neuropressure.”
So: she was now called upon not only to engage in an activity with Commander