The Good That Men Do - Andy Mangels [9]
Leaning toward Hoshi, who stood between Phlox and Reed and Mayweather, Archer said, “So how does it feel to be an up-close eyewitness to history, Hoshi?”
She replied quietly after a lengthy and uncharacteristically tongue-tied pause. “It’s kind of embarrassing for a linguist to have to admit this, sir, but I don’t think I quite have the right words for it.”
“I know exactly how you feel,” Archer replied with a chuckle. Gesturing toward the new translator unit that hung from the lanyard encircling his collar, he added. “But thanks to you, all the delegates did have the right words.”
Archer watched the assembled diplomats as they stood around the open circle formed by the conference tables, accepting congratulations and handshakes- or respectful gestures, in the case of the standoffish Vulcans, whose touch-telepathic abilities made them understandably disinclined to allow physical contact- from the Starfleet brass, Earth government officials, and other assorted notables. And it all took place before the all-seeing electronic eyes of the media, who were even now spreading the day’s words and images throughout the sector and beyond.
In spite of his hopes for the future, Archer couldn’t help but wonder how many other outlying civilizations would take the news being made here today as a reason to become as paranoid as the Xindi had been.
Now who’s being paranoid? Archer thought, trying to force himself to relax.
Malcolm leaned down to speak sotto voce into Archer’s ear. “Is it just me, or was Ambassador Lekev going out of his way to point out every small nit in the fine print?”
Archer had harbored similar unvoiced thoughts during the presentation, though he wondered if he hadn’t been singling Lekev out for unusual scrutiny because of the decidedly inhuman aspect presented by the ambassador’s mask.
“Maybe we’ve all got to learn to look past masks, Malcolm,” Archer said, eager to give the Coridanites the benefit of the doubt.
“Maybe learning to get along with other species is a beginner’s art,” Travis added.
Archer feared that Mayweather might well be right about that. But before he could think of a suitably upbeat reply, his communicator beeped, its tone indicating an incoming signal from Enterprise. He pulled the small device from his pocket and flipped its metal grid open with a practiced flick of his wrist.
“Archer here. Go ahead, Enterprise.”
“O’Neill, sir,” said Lieutenant Donna “D.O.” O’Neill, her no-nonsense tones rendered slightly metallic by the communicator’s tiny speaker. She paused, apparently to stifle a sudden cough, before continuing. “Enterprise will be ready to break orbit and get under way for Vulcan within the hour, per your orders.”
Vulcan. There Archer would finally be reunited with Trip and T’Pol- and would no doubt see the grief still lingering on both their faces, T’Pol’s tight Vulcan emotional control notwithstanding. Once again, Archer wished that Trip and T’Pol were here instead of there, focusing on the future and hope rather than on the past and despair.
“Acknowledged, D.O.,” Archer said. “Shuttlepod One will dock with Enterprise in about forty-five minutes. Then I’ll want best speed to Vulcan. Archer out.”
And let’s hope while we’re gone that nothing spooks these delegates the way Terra Prime did, he thought as he flipped the communicator grid closed.
Three
Thursday, January 30, 2155
Vulcan's Forge
THE HARSH, DRY WIND stung his exposed skin. Commander Charles “Trip” Tucker III was glad that it was twilight, even if the area was still quite hot. He didn’t know how the Vulcans withstood the heat, given all their layered heavy garments. For the occasion, he had asked for a set of ceremonial robes; it seemed fitting, even if he was soaked in sweat underneath them.
The Vulcan who had helped clothe him had also given him a matching swath of fabric intended to allow him to surreptitiously