Chapter 19: Run-In At P'Jem

He woke up with a groan, and the images of last night were back in an instant. Seeing that the large bed was empty, his heart sank immediately as it appeared that his worst fears had come true – T'Pol and T'Lara were gone. He wondered what Soval would make of the fact that the girl's step-parents, who weren't even properly together – because they couldn't – had broken up.

Ignoring his throbbing head and the feeling of having the morning breath from hell, Trip rolled over towards the edge of the bed to leave it. On his way there, he discovered a PADD by dint of having it stick in his side. With shaky hands he grabbed it. Since when did Vulcans write 'Dear John' letters?

This must be what it feels like to be a Vulcan, he thought. Not that his ears had grown pointy ends, but at this very moment he was utterly unable to make sense of his emotions. It was a most tumultuous mix of joy, amusement at her quip of taking pointers from Anna, and being moved by her poignant declaration of love, even though in best T'Pol tradition she had of course avoided using the word itself.

He opened the link and saved the communication to his personal storage space. He would surely read that one a couple times more in the future.

This being the first time they were taking T'Lara to the mess hall for breakfast, he watched her reactions closely as the room would be full of males; and despite Hoshi's assurances that she was well able to make the distinction between her tormentors and 'normal humans', he was on full alert.

T'Lara herself presented a rather comical picture. After he had glossed over the outward signs of his hangover with a long shower and a very long brushing of teeth, he had collected his two favorite ladies at T'Pol's quarters. The short one had gone all-out Vulcan and out-logic'ed him in insisting that there were no hazards in a mess hall that would prevent her from wearing her beloved bunny shoes. That was why he found himself with a young Vulcan holding on to his hand, who wore a bright pink woolen sweater – a gift from Hoshi – and ridiculous slippers.

Seeing Anna and Pat wave them over, it took no effort to riddle out that there had been more people involved in planning T'Lara's first outing to the mess hall. The table was almost breaking down with the large selection of food on it. He couldn't imagine a species in the universe that wouldn't find anything of interest in that selection.

He smiled a bit uneasily at Anna and Pat when he and his small family sat down across from them. It was a strange feeling, knowing that T'Pol had become close enough friends with them to literally discuss everything. He concentrated on the menu and selected scrambled eggs and bacon for himself. Neither T'Pol nor T'Lara made any move to send him a scolding look for his selection of meat.

He had to hide a smile when he saw the young one shovel a selection of comfort food to her plate. Someone must have introduced her to strawberry jam as she went straight for the sweet coating applicable to her bread roll. Even more hilarious was seeing her eat it with a knife and fork.

It was good to see that she was staying well in 'Vulcan character', if it wasn't for the fact that she had to touch it beforehand to prepare it.

"Someone's got a sweet tooth," he remarked casually. He had his doubts that she understood the meaning of his quip, but she smiled at him nonetheless, happily munching on her sweet breakfast.

"Trip, get back up here," Malcolm groaned. "How often have you checked that bloody shuttlepod? If there was as much as a water stain from washing it, you'd have found it by now."

"Just makin' sure," the engineer grumbled, finally climbing up the stairs toward the upper level of the shuttle bay. "It's not only the first time we deploy the thing, it's also takin' my entire family down there."

"If anything the real danger waits exactly down there. Has the thought occurred to you that her former handler could be waiting for them on the surface?"

"Sonofabitch!"

"Don't worry," the Brit said, grabbing the panicking engineer's shoulder. "T'Pol came to me with the same idea two hours ago. We've wired her. All she has to do is innocently touch a button on her uniform and I'll deploy the cavalry."

"Can't you just go down with them?" Trip asked. "You were adopted into the clan weren't you?"

"Trip, I'm not going to prove that decision wrong by walking into a monastery with a rifle. We've taken every precautionary measure we can, but we can't go down there guns blazing. Relations with the Vulcans are strained enough. We can't afford to upset the one clan that still trusts us."

"I don't like this!"

"Neither do I," Malcolm agreed, grimacing. "But it's what we have to work with."

The facts presented did not add up to a logical conclusion. Although the monks and priests at the monastery did not use much technology and had no long-range communication equipment, she knew that her clansman Soval had made them aware of the impending arrival of a human ship. According to the Elder who had greeted them –clansman V'Korat, if her childhood memories were intact – had claimed this to be the time of Kohlinaar, the ritual purging of emotions.

This ritual time was, however, not dictated by a time-line or physiological implications. While it was true that visitors would not be admitted during this time, the decision to start it was a completely arbitrary one and could have easily been delayed until after the announced visit of the human vessel.

Also, if it was the time of purging emotions, why did the Elder appear strangely agitated? For the time being she had not questioned the Elder's at least somewhat inaccurate facts, merely requesting instead to be presented with the Stone of J'Kahr. While the Elder was away to retrieve it, she inspected the shrine of relics in which several ornaments appeared to be perched at an odd angle, and then she saw the reason for this strange situation.

Her hand went to needlessly adjust the collar of her uniform, casually touching the button in the process.

"Something's wrong down there."

The dry statement from the Lieutenant behind the tactical console hung in the air for a split-second and Jon knew he had to react fast, or Trip would do something stupid.

"Trip, Malcolm, assemble a team and go down there," he ordered, knowing that leaving the engineer out of it would have been an exercise in futility. In no time the two men had disappeared into the turbo lift.

"Whoever it is down there," the captain said sarcastically to no-one in particular, "I don't think they know what they've gotten themselves into."

If he wasn't so occupied he would have taken the time to enjoy the surroundings. For a race that tried to have their emotions surgically removed if possible, the Vulcans surely had a penchant for beautiful places, Malcolm thought. His first choice of building would have been a holiday resort on such a lush planet.

However, this was just momentary distraction from the havoc that Trip's flying was wreaking on his stomach. The engineer had a rather liberal interpretation of what the craft's flight envelope defined as 'safe parameters'.

Never since 1939 when the bloody Germans invaded Poland had someone dive-bombed into a place like that. The horrible whine of the inertial dampers left no doubt that the passengers' internal organs would have been rearranged in the worst possible way by now if it weren't for the hard working devices. In view of the presence of junior crew members, he bit down on the irritable observation that they were aboard a shuttlepod, not a bloody Stuka.

It was hard to fathom how he did it, given his current flying style, but the chief engineer brought them down to a safe if somewhat sturdy landing and the team of four filed somewhat shakily out of the craft. It was not exactly the size of a cavalry unit, but it was enough for reconnaissance purposes. After all, they had no idea yet what the emergency was.