Chapter 3: A helping Hand

Jon was seriously considering to ask the quartermaster to make a sign that read 'do not salute me'. He could wear it around his neck. All he wanted was to tour Earth's first Warp 5 ship. He knew of course that protocol and regulations demanded that non-coms salute before an officer, but it was patently impractical, especially on a ship in the final stage of completion.

There were toolboxes, measuring equipment and ladders everywhere and people hurriedly climbing down the ladder, just to stand at attention for the moment he passed them was simply ridiculous. It was bordering on the dangerous actually. He would deal with that in a first standing order. It was more than enough to acknowledge his existence with a nod and only if they were on the same altitude.

That young engineering crewman, who had jumped off the ladder and botched the landing could have seriously injured herself if it wasn't for the fact that she had practically landed in his arms. It had taken him quite some time to convince her that she wasn't going to be spaced for her 'improper conduct'. He knew of course that his reputation preceded him – that was the disadvantage of carrying the name Archer – but he didn't like the hero worship. He hadn't done a single thing yet as a Captain that would warrant any fawning over him. He directed his thoughts back to Enterprise.

It sure was an impressive ship. There were loose ends to tie up everywhere, but the sheer size of it was a clear sign that humanity was ready to make the next step. She might be looking small in comparison to some of the Vulcan cruisers, but the pointy eared know-it-alls had a century or two of a head start. For Earth this was a monumental achievement. The Vulcans had more than once tried to offer a technology transfer, but thankfully Starfleet had resisted the temptation, as that would have meant more Vulcan influence and subsequently more Vulcan nannying. And that was something they needed least of all.

Every single bit on this ship was designed, developed and manufactured by humans. And the man mostly responsible for keeping this going was Trip. He had walked the corridors and laboratories for three hours now and he had encountered Trip no less than five times in different areas of the ship. That man was simply always on the move. One time he explained welding techniques to a young crewman, the next time he could be seen instructing one of his engineers on the finer points of calibrating the flow regulators of an EPS conduit.

He made a mental note to invite Trip to a chat and a game of water polo the next days. That man needed to wind down a bit. As the ranking officer until Starfleet could finally come to a decision whether A.G. or himself would be the skipper, Trip had overseen most of the recruiting, so there was a lot he had to pick his buddy's brain about.

He saw that Subcommander T'Pol was coming out of what would be one of the science labs, if he remembered the deck plans right.

"One minute please, Subcommander," he called out. He saw the Vulcan stop. She acknowledged his request with a wordless nod.

"Care to join me for a few meters?" he asked and indicated the direction in which he planned to continue.

"Of course, Captain."

"I was wondering if the Vulcan compound had any medic to spare, who has experience with both Vulcan and human physiology," he asked.

"May I ask why you would wish for a Vulcan medical officer?" she asked back and there was that raised eyebrow again. "I got the impression that you were not too satisfied with Vulcan influence on your mission."

"You are right about that," he admitted. "But since your people aren't very forthcoming with details about – well – anything, there is no human medic qualified enough to treat Vulcans. Even though you are only assigned to us temporarily, I will not leave space dock until we have a chief medical officer, who can treat you as well as the rest of the crew."

He spared her a sideways glance. She walked beside him, steps perfectly synchronized with his, with her hands clasped behind her back. He could see that she gave his proposal some thought.

"Your consideration honors you, Captain. I believe there is another option that may be more agreeable to you. There is an Interspecies Medical Exchange, organized by the Vulcan Academy of Science. As part of that operation there are several medics working on Earth. Most of them are Vulcan, but there is a Denobulan doctor, named Phlox."

"Denobulan?"

"A planet that has been visited by Earth freighters regularly over the past twenty years. They are a species that has no problem with overt expression of emotions, which would make it easier for the crew to interact with him. They are highly advanced in medical and genetic science. A Denobulan medic is not taken seriously on their world if he doesn't hold at least five degrees."

"And this Phlox is here on Earth and willing to join the crew?" he asked her.

"If he is willing to join the crew is a question that only he can answer. I do know however that he is fascinated with humanity. I would venture to suspect that he would be unable to withstand the temptation of being part of humanity's first deep space mission."

"Thank you, Subcommander," he said with a smile as they came to stop in front of the turbo lift. "I don't want to keep you from your tasks any longer. You've been a great help."

"You are welcome, Captain. Do you perhaps know where I can find Commander Tucker? I seem to be unable to locate him and my request does not warrant the use of a biosensor sweep."

"Good luck with that," Jon said with a chuckle and he saw that mysterious eyebrow creep up again. "He's been all over the ship. Why don't you just contact him with your communicator?"

"Starfleet apparently saw no necessity to issue me any communication devices or any communication codes."

Jon fought down a flash of anger that quickly turned to shame, when he realized that two days ago he would probably have seconded that decision. That was before he finally had a chance to talk to her. Ashamed by his own prejudice, he zipped open the arm pocket of his uniform.

"Have mine," he said and handed her the device. "Ask Ensign Sato to establish a communication profile for you and reprogram the communicator. And if you find the time please consider yourself invited to dinner in the Captain's mess at nineteen hundred. Tell Commander Tucker to come, too when you find him."

"Thank you, Captain."

John did a double take as the slender Subcommander disappeared into the turbo lift. Did a Vulcan really just say 'thank you'? Something felt strange about this Vulcan Subcommander. She wasn't at all what he had expected. Somehow it felt as if she was almost too willing to blend in with the crew. It was definitely something to keep an eye on.

Trip was buried deep in the bowels of access hatch D17, lying on his back. He looked at the chaos before him. Who the hell had devised that layout? He looked up and taxed the moody plasma flow regulator. These things were known to be more than just slightly fragile, so why did they put them in places that would require Houdini to pry them out? He swore out his disapproval and kept working on the part that he had fought with for the better part of half an hour.

When he looked down along his own body he could see two legs in front of the opening of the hatch. They were clad in brown cloth and only one person wore brown carpet colored suits – their new science officer.

"Can I do something for you, Subcommander?" he called out and of course he knew something must be on her mind, else she wouldn't have contacted him on Jon's com frequency about twenty minutes ago.

"Maybe, my request can wait until later."

"Bullcrap," he replied and prepared to crawl out, before he remembered something.

"Subcommander, can you open my toolbox? There should be a number of small V-shaped clips in the top drawer."

"There are." she answered after a while.

"You better put one on your nose to clamp it shut. I'm not exactly smelling like roses right now," he warned her.

When he had wiggled his way out of the cramped space, he had to fight hard not to laugh. She looked simply ridiculous with the clamp over her nose, but considering that he could barely stand his own odor right now, it was a worthwhile trade-off.

"Sorry 'bout that," he said and indicated her face. "But I've spent the last half hour in a cramped space at over 40 centigrade. I'm stinking like a polecat. I don't know much about Vulcans, but I've heard about your sense of smell."

"Your consideration is noted," she replied with a distorted voice.

"What can I do for you?"

"I was meaning to ask if you could spare a crewman to adjust the life support system in my quarters. The environmental controls do not let me select any temperature above 25 degrees centigrade."

"Right, you come from a desert planet," he contemplated. "That's nothing a crewman should do. When does your shift end?"

"Eighteen hundred," she quacked in her distorted voice and Trip realized it sounded somewhat cute. But what really impressed him was the way she accepted this. Most other Vulcans would have just gone mute for fear of their precious dignity being tainted. "We have been invited to dine with the Captain at nineteen hundred after the shift though."

"How high do you need to adjust it?" he asked, acknowledging her info with a nod and poking away at a PADD with the specs of the life support systems.