The Good That Men Do - Andy Mangels [161]
None of them had looked in his direction, and if they had, all they would have seen was yet another Vulcan observer. Just another alien face, in a sea of alien faces.
Trip moved on, more determined than ever to do what he’d come here to do. His parents might not have been sufficiently trained in the art of keeping secrets to allow him to risk revealing himself to them today. But T’Pol was a different matter.
Of all the people he cared about- and had been forced to deceive so cruelly, thanks both to the Romulans and Section 31- she was certainly capable of handling the plain truth.
“There they are,” said Albert Edward Tucker, stabbing his left index finger into the general direction of the VIP boxes adjacent to the one in which he sat.
“What?” said Miguel Cristiano Salazar, who was seated beside Albert. He strained to see whatever or whoever it was that his partner was trying to call to his attention.
It was obvious to him that Bert’s grief over the loss of his younger brother was still eating him alive. Over the past week or so, as the date of the Coalition Compact ceremonies had drawn close, that grief seemed to have begun to metamorphose into an almost incandescent rage.
“Enterprise officers, I’m pretty sure,” Tucker said, pointing again for emphasis.
“Where?”
“There.” Bert sounded impatient, exasperated, but Miguel knew it was only the pain talking. Still, it could get tiresome. “There, in the box that Vulcan guy in the robes just passed.”
“Oh,” Miguel said, finally picking the three dark blue uniforms out of the still settling crowd. “I see them now. And stop pointing, Bert. This isn’t a World Cup match.”
Bert stopped pointing, but his mood didn’t become any more pleasant. “If they’re sitting in one of the VIP boxes, then they must have known Trip pretty well.”
“Wouldn’t Enterprise officers have been able to get better seats than that?” Miguel said.
Bert answered in an unintelligible mumble and continued staring daggers at the trio of Starfleet officers who might or might not have been Trip’s shipmates.
Miguel wished that Bert had made his decision to attend today’s event when some of the better VIP boxes- like the one near the stage, where Bert’s parents had been seated- had still been available. That way, Bert might never have even caught sight of Trip’s alleged colleagues.
Of course, better seats would have put Bert that much closer to Captain Archer. Miguel felt grateful, at least, that Bert had declined the captain’s invitation to meet with him today backstage, to receive Archer’s personal condolences. He certainly didn’t want to have to manage that confrontation.
Finally tiring of watching Bert glare sullenly in the direction of the Starfleet people, Miguel said, “It’s not their fault, you know.”
Bert turned that harsh glare upon Miguel. “Isn’t it, Mike? Any one of them could have been the one to die. Why did it have to be Trip instead?”
Miguel had tried to be patient, but Bert was pushing him to his limit. “That’s not fair. The galaxy is a dangerous place.”
“You’re goddamned right it is. And Trip might still be alive if Starfleet wasn’t out there sticking its head into the lion’s mouth. Lizzie, too.”
Folding his arms across his chest, Miguel said, “Why don’t you just start up your own Terra Prime cell, then? I hear they’re looking for a new leader now that Paxton is in jail.”
Bert reacted with speechless incredulity, as though he’d just been slapped across the face. “My God, Mike. Is that what you think of me? That I’m some sort of racist isolationist?”
Miguel regretted his words the instant they’d left this lips. After all, hadn’t Terra Prime wounded Bert as well? The death of the half-Vulcan child that Paxton’s terrorists had created, in part, from Trip’s flesh, was no doubt also still an open wound.
“You tell me, Bert,” he said, trying to shift