The Expanse - J.M. Dillard [71]
Phlox lowered the hypo, then lifted a padd from the counter. “If you wouldn’t mind, Commander ... I promised T’Pol I’d take these bio-scans to her quarters. But I still have quite a bit of work to do here.”
“No problem, Doc.” Smiling faintly, Trip took the padd. Between the hypospray and the extreme exhaustion, he was looking forward to a full night’s sleep. “Thanks.”
The instant Commander Tucker left sickbay, Phlox moved to the nearest companel and tapped a control. “Sickbay to T’Pol.” He kept his voice low, lest someone should overhear. While he did not like indulging in subterfuge with his patients—or of forcing unwilling others to join in that subterfuge with him—Phlox knew of no better way to help the Commander.
T’Pol’s voice, always level and even in pitch, filtered through the grid. “Yes, Doctor?”
“Commander Tucker’s on his way to your quarters,” Phlox warned her. “He believes I just gave him a sedative, but it was only a placebo.” He paused. “He’s had a rather difficult day. I believe you have your work cut out for you.”
He ended the communication at once, before she had a chance to protest.
The door to T’Pol’s quarters slid open to reveal a sight that disconcerted Trip more than a little: the Vulcan, her unmistakably feminine form covered by a close-fitting pair of pajamas, on top of which lay an open satin robe. Behind her, the room was deep in shadow, lit only by a few wavering candles.
He’d noticed that T’Pol was female before, of course—he’d have to have been dead not to; calling her attractive would have been an understatement. But for some reason that night, she seemed particularly ... well, vulnerable. He noticed, for the first time, that she had let her hair grow out.
He cleared his throat, and handed her the padd, all business. “Sorry to drop by so late, but Phlox said you were expecting this.” He did not meet her gaze.
“Thank you.” She took the padd without looking at it, then paused. “Please ...” She took a step back into the room, and gestured awkwardly for him to enter. “Come in.”
Trip couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d burst into giggles. T’Pol never socialized with the crew, and despite his “movie nights” invites she had never sought out Trip. He couldn’t imagine why she would invite him in except ...
Nah. It had to be male ego talking. She couldn’t be coming on to him.
Even so, he was embarrassed. Doing his best to hide it, he said casually, “I don’t think I’d be very good company right now.” He glanced down at his fingernails. “Anyway, I’d probably stain your furniture. I still have a few more showers to take before I get all this trellium off me.”
She would not take the excuse. “Please,” she said, in a confidential tone. “There’s something I’d like to ask you.”
The request startled him; T’Pol was the type to consult the computer on any questions she had about humans. At her most desperate, she might resort to asking Doctor Phlox. But maybe ... Trip dismissed the idea that she was flirting with him as far too unlikely, and decided that perhaps she had a question that only a human could answer.
Even so, he was hardly comfortable entering the room; with its candles and meditation pillow, it looked like an intimate little shrine.
T’Pol gestured to a chair; he took it, and she sat opposite him.
“What’s up?” he asked. Vulcans, after all, liked to be direct.
Her question took him aback. “Do you feel my rank is still fitting?”
Trip blinked. “Beg your pardon?”
“Captain Archer asked me to continue serving as his first officer.”
“I’m aware of that,” Trip said. He didn’t see what the problem was.
T’Pol hesitated. “But now that I’m no longer a member of the High Command, I’m not certain whether the rank of sub-commander is appropriate.” She paused. “I’d like your opinion.”
Trip found the question strange. They were on one of the most important missions in history, one that meant life or death for billions. For T’Pol to be worrying about her rank at a time like this seemed ... well,