The Romulan War_ Beneath the Raptor's Wing (Book 1) - Michael A. Martin [219]
“Captain Archer needs us,” she said.
“I know,” he said, looking pained. “But I still can’t go, T’Pol. What he really needs is you—the best XO he’s ever had.”
“Don’t...” T’Pol knew his mind was made up, immovable. “You must take care to maintain your Sodok identity, Trip,” she said, bowing to the inevitable. “You are an alien here. And you must remember to take your sulfatriptan drugs regularly.”
He grinned. “To keep my blood a nice, healthy green. Of course. I’ll even take the added precaution of not letting myself get cut, stabbed, folded, spindled, or mutilated, and I’ll stay out of the rain.”
“ShiKahr experiences little rainfall,” T’Pol said, struggling to maintain her composure. “But it can be a challenging place for an... outworlder.” His meandering and irrelevancy-strewn words both confused and amused her.
“Don’t worry about me, T’Pol. This isn’t permanent. Once I’m satisfied that Terix isn’t going to leave a rooster-tail of destruction behind him, I’ll come back from the dead.”
“To Enterprise?”
“If the captain’ll have me, yes.”
She nodded, satisfied. Her eyes stung. She heard T’Les’s voice echoing in the distance, chiding her for her lack of emotional control. She ignored it.
Trip gestured over his shoulder toward the house. “Mind if I crash on your sofa while I’m in town?”
Once she understood what he was asking, she nodded. “Mi casa es su casa.”
Trip looked surprised. “Wow. I figured you for having taken French, not Spanish.”
Tears threatened to rise, as did laughter. She tamped down hard on both.
He stepped toward her and took both her hands between his. “I’ll even stay on top of the maintenance around here.”
She swallowed, barely trusting herself to speak. “Thank you.”
“Least I can do,” he said. She saw that tears stood in his eyes as well. “I can’t let poor Denak do all the weed-pulling himself, you know. He’s not getting any younger.”
She wanted to embrace him.
Time passed, but T’Pol couldn’t say just how much.
“Your driver’s gonna start honking,” Trip said.
“Vulcan drivers do not ‘honk,’ Trip.”
He shrugged. “I should have figured. Not logical.”
Oh, yes, she thought wryly. You will blend right in on Vulcan, Charles Anthony Tucker III.
“Be careful,” she said.
He smiled gently. “If there’s one thing I learned from living among the Romulans, it’s how to get along while trusting nobody.”
He brought her hands up to his lips and kissed them gently. “Almost nobody,” he amended, and then released her.
Deciding she no longer cared about what the driver might see, T’Pol hooked her hand around the back of Trip’s neck, pulled him to her, and kissed him.
Then she grabbed her travel bag, turned silently on her heel, and walked very quickly back to the waiting hovercar. She could hear the echo of his last thought and knew he could hear hers. They were one and the same: I love you.
SEVENTY-SIX
Sunday, June 20, 2156
Endeavour, Altair VI
THE ADRENALINE RUSH that had sustained Lieutenant Commander Stephen B. Reynard, XO of the Starship Endeavour, throughout the battle suddenly collapsed, dropping him heavily into the big empty chair at the center of a bridge that was now in need of extensive repairs.
According to the chronometer on the arm of the captain’s chair, barely visible in the dim red emergency lighting, the entire gun-to-gun “conversation” with the Romulan invasion fleet—the second such armada that the sneaky bastards had sent to Altair VI—had taken just short of ten