The Romulan War_ Beneath the Raptor's Wing (Book 1) - Michael A. Martin [164]
“Perhaps,” T’Pol said, skeptical. “Though I doubt the same could be said of Jonathan Archer.”
A recollection of Archer’s visit to the Forge—during which Surak himself chose him as a temporary vessel for his katra—sprang to mind. The errant memory, coupled with the strange tics that had crept into the administrator’s speech, sent a chill down T’Pol’s spine.
She realized all at once that while she was speaking with T’Pau, she was not speaking only with T’Pau.
FORTY-FOUR
Thursday, March 11, 2156
San Francisco, Earth
“EGG DROP SOUP,“ SAID THE DOCTOR after downing yet another gulp from his bowl. “The only thing that compares from here to Denobula is your own Greek soupa avgolemono. We have nothing even remotely like either dish on Denobula.”
Seated across one of the Lotus Blossom restaurant’s small tables from his chief medical officer, Jonathan Archer fidgeted in his chair. “You know, Phlox, Chef can whip up egg drop soup for you any time you like back on the ship. Or even soupa avgolemono.”
Phlox shrugged, then tossed down another mouthful with a loud, enthusiastic slurp. Then he paused to dab at the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin. The dainty gesture made for a stark contrast to the consumption component of his table manners.
“Undoubtedly,” he said. Then, in a conspiratorial whisper, he added, “But why be stuck aboard Enterprise on the eve of battle when your entire world beckons?” The whisper seemed calculated for comic effect, since Tommy, the Lotus Blossom’s always solicitous maître d’, had seated them in one of the otherwise empty private-party dining rooms in order to assure their privacy.
My entire world, Archer thought grimly as he contemplated the wreckage of his General Tso’s chicken and Mongolian beef. Of all the eateries in all the Chinatowns in all the world, Phlox has to choose this one. It has to be a conspiracy.
Archer nodded as he assayed a small, guarded smile. “‘Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may all die at Berengaria.’” He supposed it might be prudent to compose prayers to the Coalition’s various deities—maybe including even the pointy-eared ones—in the hope that the Romulans wouldn’t launch a major offensive elsewhere when so much of Starfleet’s attention was focused on Berengaria.
Phlox looked surprised. “I wouldn’t have described our situation in such fatalistic terms, Captain. I have complete confidence in your ability to lead us through whatever might be in store for us.”
That makes one of us, Archer thought as he tried to draw strength from the doctor’s attempt to encourage him. Unfortunately, his recollections of the last desperate pleas of the master of the Kobayashi Maru kept getting in the way.
“Regardless,” Phlox continued, “a life-affirming social activity is far preferable to leaving you to brood alone in your quarters.”
“I never brood alone, Phlox. I would have had Porthos with me.”
“Who would almost certainly be contemplating suicide by now. No, Captain, medical ethics demanded that I intervene on the canine’s behalf. And as I said, the best prescription for you right now—not to mention for poor Porthos—is a life-affirming activity. And what better time is there than the night before the commencement of a major military operation to undertake a life-affirming activity?”
Archer’s lips curled into a wry smile. “Are you referring to the egg drop soup, or the fact that Rebecca was working here tonight?”
Phlox’s smile grew disconcertingly broad and wide, a reminder of his nonhuman facial musculature. This cultivated humanlike mannerism must once have been a Denobulan threat display, a physiological relic from some bygone epoch. “Take your pick,” he said.
“I suppose it was good to get the chance to tell her good-bye,” Archer said. “Even if I can’t tell her why this time.” Starfleet’s upcoming mass assault on Berengaria VII—whose twin goals were the elimination