1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One – Guess Who's Coming To Dinner?**

There were six pads piled up on the corner of his desk, four more about to slide off of the curved arm of the small sofa, and one clenched in his hand. Captain Jonathan Archer had a lot of work to do, and zero motivation to do it. He looked at his computer screen again, at the message written in terse English – condescendingly, as only a Vulcan could manage.

_I will contact you, secure channel, fourteen hundred hours precisely. Soval._

Because there couldn't possibly be anything else important for him to do in the middle of the afternoon on a starship besides wait for a phone call.

Nothing to do except stare at the big giant anomaly spread out before _Enterprise_ like a thirty-thousand square kilometer lavender carpet. It was unlike anything they had encountered in the Expanse; no electromagnetic gremlins randomly arranging the furniture. Anytime they drifted within five-hundred kilometers of the thing, the ship's systems started complaining - loudly. All they could do was hover at relative full stop while T'Pol and her department tried to make sense of the readings they were receiving. Even the probes they had launched at it had immediately started acting wonky (a perfectly good word despite his Science Officer's refusal to acknowledge it), sending back an alphabet soup that defied analysis. Despite the fact that he himself had a Master's in Astrophysics, the theoretical science of it was way over his head, and it had only taken a few pointed glances from his Science Officer, eyebrow raised, before he had gotten the hint: _You're in our way_. Eventually, he'd retreated to his ready room to read the daily reports.

So he clearly had no other important things to do besides sit around and wait by the phone for Soval's call like a lovesick teenager on a Saturday night.

He glanced at the computer clock. Two more minutes. The padd vibrated in his hand, warning that he was about to be timed out of the report he hadn't been reading. He shut it off.

Two minutes and nine seconds later, Hoshi commed him. "Archer," he said, sounding more brusque than he intended. Honestly, after all these years, he didn't know why he still felt as if he were being called on the carpet for being a bad boy every time the Vulcans contacted him.

"Sir, I have Ambassador Soval on a secure channel for you." Archer could hear the tiny inquisitive note in Hoshi's voice. "Shall I put him through?"

"Thanks, Hoshi." There was a soft murmur in the background, and Archer could clearly picture the exchange of looks between his Communications Officer and his Vulcan First Officer. T'Pol would have one elegant eyebrow raised, this time in inquiry. "Put him through, please." As much as he valued T'Pol's presence when dealing with any Vulcans, he would much prefer to receive his dressing down in private, for whatever it was that he had done wrong this time. She'd have to wait.

The screen came to life, instantly resolving itself into the severe features of Ambassador Soval. Archer took a deep breath. Conversations with Soval always started out politely; this one wouldn't be any different. "Ambassador, hello. How . . . interesting to hear from you."

Soval put some effort into relaxing his face, clearly attempting to observe the social norms he had encountered on Earth during his assignment there. "Captain Archer, it is agreeable to speak with you." _Huh, no pause before that adjective_, Archer thought. _He's downright effusive today. _"I am _en route_ to Enterprise and will rendezvous with you in five standard hours," Soval continued, then paused. "Please do not go to warp as I dock with your vessel."

Archer raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I – I'm sorry, Ambassador . . . ?"

"Forgive me," Soval said. "That was intended to approximate a pleasantry." Archer sat back in his chair. "There are matters I wish to discuss with you, Captain Archer, and I believe I may require your assistance. Would it – would it be _convenient_ to arrive at _Enterprise's __current __location_ at that time?"

Archer blinked several times, perfectly aware that he must look like a dim-wit. "Uh, certainly, Ambassador. Perhaps we could discuss your matter over dinner?"

Soval nearly sighed. "As you wish, Captain."

"I'll have Chef –" The transmission disconnected abruptly, leaving Archer talking to the deep blue Starfleet screensaver. "Fix something appropriate," he finished in a mutter. "Have a nice day." He shook his head hard, as if to clear cobwebs and then tapped his fingers on the desk, considering. Based on past conversations he'd had with the man, Soval had spoken volumes by what he _hadn't_ said. He had not mentioned Starfleet Headquarters or Admiral Gardner, which had to mean that he was acting outside Starfleet's normal chain of command. He had referred to himself in the first person, singular – "I may require your assistance" – so perhaps he was not acting under authority of the Vulcan government, either. And, whatever it was, Soval was not about to discuss it over subspace, even on a secure channel. Maybe it was personal.

_Curious._

Archer stood up and ducked through the door to the Bridge. T'Pol looked up from her console immediately, and followed him with her eyes until he took his seat. He kept her hanging for a moment, just because he could, and then said nonchalantly, "T'Pol, we're having Ambassador Soval over for dinner tonight. Can you join us in the Captain's Mess at twenty one hundred hours?"

She masked her expression of surprise almost immediately and responded, "I will give Chef some suitable menu suggestions." She held his gaze for a moment, waiting.

_I have no idea_, he answered her unspoken question with a shrug of his shoulders, then turned his attention to the padd he still clutched in his hand.

It had to be like having your parents come to visit you at college, Archer thought as he watched T'Pol pick an invisible speck of lint off of Commander Tucker's shoulder. If she were human, he was sure T'Pol would be reminding her crew mates to be on their best behavior, and maybe even begging them not to embarrass her. She'd served with them for more than four years, yet she hadn't quite gotten comfortable being the bridge between her Vulcan and human families.

She also knew by now that Archer and Soval had a fairly complicated relationship; while they warily respected each other, they were, at the best of times, "frenemies." She'd mediated enough spats between them to be on her guard.

He straightened to attention as the docking seal light changed from red to green, and the airlock slid open under Trip's hand. Ambassador Soval stood there alone – unusual, that, since he normally was accompanied by at least one aide. He was dressed in a simple slate-blue tunic and trousers, no heavy elaborate robes for this visit. He held a small black bag in his left hand, and for a horrified moment Archer wondered if the Ambassador were planning on staying overnight.

"Welcome aboard _Enterprise_, Ambassador," Archer greeted him. He knew better than to hold out his hand to shake. Soval was not V'Lar.

"Captain," Soval nodded. He acknowledged T'Pol and Trip in turn, eyebrow twitching slightly as he took in T'Pol's Starfleet Commander pips, affixed to the collar of her violently purple catsuit. "I am grateful that you acceded to my request."

"I'm interested in hearing what you have to say, Ambassador." He gestured invitingly down the corridor. "But first, T'Pol will show you to our guest quarters so you can settle in before dinner."

"I assure you I have no need to . . . 'freshen up,' Captain," Soval said, having spent more than thirty years in diplomatic service on Earth. "I am prepared to begin our meeting now."

T'Pol stepped in, a diplomat also. "Perhaps you would prefer a chance to assemble your thoughts for a few moments, then. I will inform Chef that he may prepare to serve dinner."

The idea of meditating in advance of dealing with the humans seemed to hold some appeal for Soval, who nodded once and allowed himself to be led off toward his accommodations. Archer let out the breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding and glanced at Trip. "I'm dying to know what's up with him," he commented.

The commander smirked. "He does seem to be warming up to you, Cap'n. He was bordering on friendly."

"That's what worries me." He turned and started down the corridor at a stroll. "There's something I just can't put my finger on. What in the world could he want from me? I mean, in four years, Soval has gradually moved from icy contempt to mere suspicion to barely tolerating me – yet here he is wanting a favor? And it looks like he's not even going through Gardner or even T'Pau to ask it."

"Ambassador Soval, going off the grid? This I've gotta see."

Soval seemed impatient, almost anxious, through the first two dinner courses. Chef, always willing to show off his alien cuisine skills, had pulled together a part Vulcan, part human-vegetarian meal designed to please all of the diners. Soval inspected the garden salad carefully before eating it, and murmured a mild praise of the plomeek soup. After that, he moved his fork through the lentil pilaf, pushing it from one side of the plate to the other, as if marking time until he could talk business.

Finally, Archer decided to put the man out of his misery. He set aside his napkin and picked up his glass of iced tea. "So, Ambassador, how can we help you? What is all this about?"

Soval looked pained. "Klingons," he said.

Archer sat up straight. "You've got my attention."

The Ambassador visibly gathered himself and proceeded, like a college professor starting the first lecture of the semester. "There have been, as you know, Captain, some changes within the Vulcan government over the past year, standard, since the rediscovery of the Kir'Shara."

"I'm aware of that, yes."

"One of the first measures taken by Minister T'Pau was to replace certain key members of the High Command, and to re-examine certain of the directives they had put into place during their tenure. It came to light that several of those directives involved particular intelligence gathering methods which had not been fully ratified by the Council. These specific methods were found to be contrary to a number of the principles and philosophies of the Council." He stopped, frowning slightly at the utterly blank faces around the table. "Is there a problem?"

T'Pol spoke first. "Ambassador, if I may be candid. I recognize that some of this information may be confidential, even secret, obtained in the course of your diplomatic duties. However, I can assure you that what you say here will be kept in strictest confidence."

"Say what you need to say," Trip added. "All this beating around the bush isn't helpful."

Soval sighed. "Long before _Enterprise's_ launch, the Vulcan High Command inserted an operative deep inside Klingon territory. Her name was Senn. When Klaang was discovered in Broken Bow, Oklahoma, the High Command reached out to Senn for information. We received two coded transmissions back. One informed us that there were other alien forces involved, and the second warned us that her undercover identity might be compromised if we contacted her again."

"Wait," Archer interrupted, "you already knew about the Suliban way back then?" He could feel the familiar anger and frustration rise.

"No, Captain," Soval replied, "we did not know which species Senn was referring to, only that the matter involved more than simply Klingons. We never got any more information about the Suliban plan to initiate a civil war in Klingon space until your mission was complete." He held Archer's gaze steadily until the captain cleared his throat and gruffly invited him to continue. "Over the next several years, there was silence from Senn – a couple of seemingly anonymous reports about changes in the Klingon government made their way to the High Command, but we could not determine with certainty that they had come from her. Mostly, we lost contact and, until a few weeks ago, we presumed her dead."

Archer leaned forward. "What happened to change your mind?"

"I received a transmission on a personal channel. It was a news feed, fairly common. I subscribe to a service which collects data regarding worlds with which Vulcan has had contact; much of the information is also collected in public databases such as the one we gave you. Inside one of these feeds was an encrypted file. It took me several days to decode it, and when I did, this is what I found." Soval reached into his pocket and retrieved a miniature data padd, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. He touched the screen and entered a command, possibly a personal identification code. A picture appeared, a still photograph or paused video. Soval passed it to T'Pol, who handed it to Archer without comment.

Archer set his glass down very, very carefully. "Kolos," he said quietly.

"Indeed," Soval replied. "The message attached was an urgent request to remove Kolos from Klingon territory."

"Kolos was sentenced to a year on Rura Penthe," Archer murmured. "He was an old man. He couldn't have survived that."

"According to this message, he did. He is still alive, Captain. But if I read this message correctly, he will not be for long."

Rura Penthe. Archer still had nightmares about it: the bone-numbing cold, the mind-numbing physical labor, and the certainty that he would perish underground on a frozen lump of desolation, condemned to die slowly on a trumped-up charge. He had nightmares about Kolos, too, wondering if his reluctant Advocate had succeeded in pissing off enough bad-tempered guards to earn himself a night on the surface, or if he had simply lain down one day next to his pickaxe and died. Regret choked him every time he thought about the elderly Klingon refusing to come with him and Malcolm, refusing to escape certain death, all for a sense of honor Archer hadn't even known Klingons possessed.

Trip stepped into the silence. "Are you saying that this Senn person sent you a message asking you to rescue Kolos? How do you even know it came from her? And, more importantly, what does that have to do with us?"

Soval folded his hands on the table, prepared to be more stubborn than the most stubborn human. "There are certain codes embedded in the transmission that are unique to Senn. No other operative, then or since, has used them. The messages themselves include prison records, disciplinary actions against Kolos. He was finally released from Rura Penthe, but only after several additional infractions lengthened his sentence by five point two additional months. The final report indicates that he has now been accused of treason."

Archer's head snapped up. "That's absurd. The only thing Kolos had _left_ was his honor. He wouldn't even escape if it meant living out his life as a fugitive. There's no way he would commit treason."

"Captain," T'Pol put in quietly, "a mere accusation of treason against the Klingon Empire is tantamount to a conviction. And the penalty is always death."

"Kolos signed his own death warrant the moment he decided to publicly criticize the Tribunal and certain individuals highly placed in the Empire," Soval said. "From what I gather, Kolos has become somewhat of a dissident."

Archer spent a moment studying his hands, pressed flat on the table. "What is it you want us to do, Soval?" he asked, in the voice he used whenever he was being pulled into a situation against his will.

Soval paused, then answered, "I want you to convince Kolos to defect."

Trip stared at the Vulcan Ambassador, his mouth slightly open in shock. "Are you kidding me?"

Archer simply nodded his head twice, as if confirming something for himself. Without looking at Soval, he said flatly, "I assume that Advocate Kolos is still somewhere inside Klingon territory."

"Yes," Soval answered.

"And you already know that there is a pretty hefty bounty on my head, right?"

"I am aware of that."

"Then why would you ask me to do this?" _Because you think I'm impulsive and careless and silly. Because you are trying to use my emotions against me. Because you know if I refuse, the guilt will haunt me for the rest of my life. Because you are a manipulative bastard._

"Because, Captain, I trust you." Soval didn't flinch as Archer pushed himself away from the table and strode the two paces that left him physically as far away from the Ambassador as he could get. "Captain, I fully understand what I am asking you to do, the risk I am asking you to take. I know Senn. I worked with her and trained her before she was chosen for this mission. I believe she is telling me, through this message, that Advocate Kolos has information that can help Vulcan – and Earth – avoid conflict with the Klingon Empire. And I believe you are the only person who can convince Kolos to leave Klingon territory and cooperate with us."

"Who is 'us,' Ambassador?" Trip asked suspiciously. "Why is this so important to you? Why are you doing all of this off-line, and not through official channels?"

Soval was obviously not used to explaining himself to anyone, not to subordinates, and certainly not to humans. He pressed his lips together in apparent annoyance, then sighed deeply. "Neither your government nor mine is willing or able to read the writing on the wall. The Vulcan Council is occupied with its own . . . internal house cleaning, with endless debates about how to move Vulcan forward. Most of the former High Command have been replaced by learned, well-meaning philosophers who spend their days studying and deciphering the Kir'Shara and the extant writings of Surak.

"But there are those of us who have been in the diplomatic corps for fifty, even a hundred, years, who have seen the steady expansion of the Klingon Empire over the years. We see that this expansion has accelerated, encompassing not just worlds, but whole systems. There is now a powerful faction, not based on Qo'noS, that is bent on acquiring territories for the Empire, even to the extent of slaughtering and subjugating countless species and civilizations. A few years ago, Vulcan would have sent diplomats and arbitrators to mediate. But the current Vulcan regime has decided, in its wisdom, on a non-interference policy." Soval lowered his voice. "I find that immoral in the extreme."

Even from across the room, Archer could see that Soval was practically shaking with suppressed emotion.

"What about Starfleet?" T'Pol asked.

"Humans, it seems, do not have the . . . galactic perspective to appreciate the danger. Admiral Gardner spoke of establishing a "neutral" zone as a buffer between the space claimed by the Coalition of Planets and that annexed by the Klingons. It is a fine idea in theory, but hopelessly naïve in practice." Soval paused to take a drink of cold water. "Of all the things that I have learned about you, Captain, one is that _you_ are not naïve."

Archer thought back to the last time he had seen Kolos, disappearing into the maze of the dilithium mine, ready to serve out his sentence, however unjustly imposed. "Don't Klingons look forward to dying with honor? We've seen them actively resist rescue just for the chance to have status in the afterlife. I would imagine he'd consider escape, rather than dying bravely, an act of cowardice, right?"

Soval studied the captain with a level gaze. "The corruption in the Empire runs deep and strong, Captain Archer. If convicted of these false charges, it would not only mean Kolos' execution. Any living relative would bear the burden of the shame - his sons would lose their positions, which would bring down the House of Mogh."

"The House of . . . ?"

Now Soval betrayed a glimmer of impatience. "Captain, believe me when I tell you that it would take more time than we have - weeks, even - to adequately explain the history of the Great Houses in the Klingon Empire to you. Let it be enough to say that if the House of Mogh falls, or is compromised, one of the strongest voices in the Empire for peaceful coexistence will be silenced."

"If this Kolos is that important, how did he get sent to Rura Penthe in the first place?" Trip wanted to know.

"Kolos publicly defied the Council, and he knew what the punishment would be when he did it," Soval said, beginning to look a little weary. "But these charges are wholly without merit, designed to dishonor the House and destroy its influence. And that would spell disaster."

"Even if – _even if_ I agreed to consider what you're asking, Ambassador, I have no way to get into Klingon territory. There's no way I'm taking _Enterprise_ in."

"I would not ask you to do so, Captain," Soval assured him. "I do have some thoughts about how this can be done. Perhaps if we could access a computer . . . ?"

Archer wasn't used to this Soval. The Ambassador he knew and mainly disliked was authoritarian and arch, dictating orders and expecting to be obeyed. _That_ Soval, like the Vulcan High Command he'd represented, had had no problem sending _Enterprise_ into danger – sometimes blindly and with her defenses down – in order to achieve his own goals.

_This_ Soval was asking for his help.

Trip rose and opened a wall panel, revealing a screen. Soval handed his padd to T'Pol, who used her security clearance code to send the information to the ship's computer. The display came to life.

For the next two hours and ten minutes, Soval laid out his plan.

When the Ambassador was finished, he sat back, folded his hands across his middle, and waited. Archer had known, before Soval's presentation was half-concluded, what his answer would be. No point in insulting the man by pretending to think it over. He simply nodded his agreement. "Questions?" he asked his officers.

They wasted no time voicing their many and various objections, in their own characteristic ways: T'Pol, with her calm logic, Trip standing firm in his _hell, no_ position, and Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, Tactical Officer, who had joined them in the crowded dining room by invitation, playing devil's advocate against any side that appeared to be winning.

Finally, Trip gave Archer one of his patented _You're crazy_ looks and said, "There are a thousand and one things that could go wrong with this mission, Cap'n."

"I'll be careful," Archer assured him.

Trip just threw up his hands in exasperation. He turned to T'Pol for support, but the Vulcan didn't say a word. "You can't possibly think this a good idea, T'Pol," he accused. "Tell him this is nuts."

T'Pol kept her face neutral. "It is not a course of action I would have chosen," she said quietly, "but the Ambassador seems to have made provision for many of the more troubling issues."

"Now _there's_ a ringing endorsement," Trip scoffed. "If that's the sum total of your enthusiasm, T'Pol, you might as well just admit right now that you think it's a suicide mission."

Archer cut in before she could respond. "I understand the risks, Trip, and your objections are noted. I've made my decision. I'm going. Now I need you to work with Malcolm on some of the finer points."

Trip held the captain's gaze for a long moment. He knew the captain well enough to recognize when an argument was over. "Aye, sir," he said finally, and just like that, the combined focus of the senior officers became trained on getting the captain into and out of Klingon space alive and in one piece. They all stood as one and slowly left the room, each already thinking, planning, evaluating.

Soval sat at the far end of the table. He'd observed the remainder of the briefing meeting quietly, staying out of the debate among the humans. Now he commented, "It is astonishing that humankind achieved interstellar flight at all, if decisions are generally made in the midst of such emotionalism and chaos."

Archer chuckled softly, for once not offended by the Ambassador's comment. "That chaos? Is why it _only_ took us a hundred years."


	2. Strange Bedfellows

**Chapter Two – Strange Bedfellows**

The atmosphere on Mikendi III was dense and cold, like being trapped in a meat locker. Archer's all-weather jacket crackled as condensation clung to the fabric and then froze. The brown insulation was designed to blend in with the myriad types of clothing worn by the hundreds of beings milling around the outpost. Nobody wore bright colors here, because nobody wanted to stand out from the crowd or be remembered by witnesses. As he made his way through the throng, he wondered what kinds of intergalactic criminals he was rubbing elbows with.

He felt exposed without T'Pol by his side. She was cosmopolitan enough not to let this alien stew faze her. Some beings were as tall and solid as trees, others were gelatinous like puddles of motor oil left to congeal. He had to look in all directions at once to avoid bumping into or stepping on some being who was likely to kill him without a second thought.

"Why can't I bring T'Pol with me?" Archer had asked, interrupting Soval's post-dinner presentation for the fifth time. By then, the Ambassador had seemed to be getting used to the constant questions from the humans.

"It would be better for you not to attract attention to yourself, Captain," Soval had explained patiently, able to field the inquiry without losing his train of thought. "Two persons of the same species would not be as conspicuous as two different beings traveling together, even if nobody has ever seen a human before. And," he had added, forestalling Reed's inevitable objection, "a man and woman traveling together rarely raises any suspicions."

So it was that Archer and MACO Major Deirdre MacKenzie, a medium built, serious looking blonde woman with absolutely lethal combat skills, made their way from their borrowed spacecraft to the private room they'd paid for under a fake name. He could feel the effort that it took for MacKenzie not to be completely weirded out by the various life forms they passed. Well-trained by the late Major Hayes, who had been killed during the Xindi mission, MacKenzie noticed every movement and shadow, and kept protectively close to the captain.

Archer checked the chit in his hand. "I think our room's down this corridor," he said, pointing with his chin to a slightly less dark, much less crowded hallway. The first of a string of characters on the oblong piece of plastic matched the sign on the wall at the intersection. Four doors down, they found their unit, matching the rest of the characters to the door label. They inserted the chit and let themselves in.

It was blessedly quiet. Since the establishment seemed unashamedly designed to cater to a shady and secretive clientele, Archer figured that the walls would be sound-proof, and the space un-surveillable. The unit had one low platform bed, one uncomfortable-looking straight-backed chair, and a small table shaped like a rhombus. A door at the rear of the unit led to a water closet, with a standing sink and a contraption that Archer hoped was a toilet. He watched in silence as MacKenzie patrolled the perimeter of the small room with her scanner, looking for electronic bugs and booby traps. Finding none, she put away her scanner and set her duffel bag down.

Archer placed his padd on the table. "We have about twelve minutes before contact, Major. What do you think so far?"

MacKenzie considered. "I think we should eat, sir," she said, pulling out two wrapped protein bars. Archer grimaced. Those things tasted like dirt. He caught the one she tossed to him, and watched as she opened her own and tore off a chunk with her teeth. It was the MACO way: whenever you stop walking, you eat, you sleep, or you check your weapon. Archer's longing for a good Chef-prepared meal – or even the ready packs stocked in the shuttle pods – made him feel pampered and lazy. He bit into the bar and kept his face expressionless.

"Actually, I was asking what you thought of this place so far."

"I wish there were another exit to this room, sir," MacKenzie answered, pulling her phase pistol from her inside jacket pocket and flipping open the battery compartment to check the charge.

Archer sighed. He was used to the senior officers on his away teams offering their opinions every step of the way. He welcomed their input, but knew when to close debate and take action. The MACOs were a whole different kettle of fish. If he ordered the major to begin building a bridge from here to China, he wouldn't hear a grumble out of her while she complied. The _When I say, Jump, you say, How high?_ approach just wasn't his style of command. "Major," he said quietly, "consider yourself having permission to speak freely for the duration of this mission. Clear?"

"Aye, sir," MacKenzie agreed immediately, powering down her pistol and walking over the check the locks on the door.

They ate in silence for another ten minutes and forty-one seconds.

Precisely on time, the door buzzed. Archer stayed where he was; MacKenzie drew her weapon and took her position on the right-hand side of the doorway so that she would be behind whoever entered. At her ready nod, Archer pressed the button to open the door.

The woman who entered was burly and tall, with auburn hair braided and wrapped around her head like a crown. She wore a long coat, almost like an Old West duster, with complex-looking buckles instead of buttons, over tight mud-colored trousers and steel-toed boots. She held her hands slightly away from her sides, palms out, and waited without speaking for Archer to scan her from head to toe.

He engaged his UT. "Senn."

The woman answered in Standard English, her voice flat and deep. "Do not say my name aloud."

"What should I call you?" Archer asked.

"Nothing," she said. As he opened his mouth to introduce himself, she cut him off. "I know who you are, Captain Jonathan Archer. What is that one?" she added brusquely, with a shoulder shrug in MacKenzie's direction.

"This is Major MacKenzie." The major's finger still rested lightly on the trigger. Archer decided to leave it that way. "She's with me."

"Soval was a fool to send a human," Senn said. "You are weak and easily broken."

Archer looked at his scanner again. The readings were Vulcan for sure, but the tone and attitude were all Klingon. He wondered just how long Senn had been in deep cover. "He didn't have much of a choice," he replied testily, "and neither do you. You don't want our help, we can be off this rock in an hour. You can get the package out all by yourself." She glared at him long enough for him to give a shrug of his own, and pocket his scanner. "Let's go, Major," he said.

"If you try to leave, I will have to kill you both," Senn said. "Seat yourselves and I will try to educate you about the situation we are facing."

_Ah, all the charming parts of both Vulcans and Klingons in one neat little package_, Archer thought to himself. He took the chair and gestured MacKenzie to the bed. Senn could stand. She strode over to the small table and slammed down a four centimeter square box. A three dimensional graphic made of light rose from the surface, and hovered there. He'd seen this technology before; T'Pol had used it to show him what the Forge looked like. This graphic was a star chart, however, with their current position represented by a blinking green light. Senn pointed to a yellow light some distance away. "Kolos is held there," she stated. "It is four thousand light-years away."

"What do you mean, 'held,'" Archer said. "I thought he had been released from custody."

"He is under house arrest, awaiting his trial for treasonous statements against the Empire."

"Is he heavily guarded?" MacKenzie asked.

The guttural noise Senn made clearly conveyed her derision at the concept. "No Klingon with any honor would ever require a guard."

"So I assume it would be easier for him to walk out of house arrest than it will be for us to go in and get him," Archer said.

"If you are detected, Captain Archer," Senn assured him, "the entire Empire will be able to watch your execution as it is broadcast from the capital city to the farthest outposts. And it will take several days." She magnified the yellow dot, which resolved itself into a diagram of a city, and then the blueprint of a building. "That is our goal. Memorize it." She strode to the door, her heavy boots making the floor vibrate. "I will go make sure our transport is ready. Wait here."

"We have a ship already," Archer said, rising. "It's docked in the complex."

"We will use the transport I have arranged." Senn barely paused.

"No, we won't." Archer used his command voice this time, the deceptively mild one that was impossible to ignore. "We'll use the ship we came in."

Senn's back stiffened. Slowly, she turned and faced the captain, baring her teeth in the Klingon way. The fact that she lacked fangs did not make the action any less menacing. "You will do as _I_ say, Captain Archer." She took three paces toward him, stalking him like prey. Her fourth step was arrested by the whirr of the phase pistol at full power. MacKenzie pressed the barrel against the Vulcan's temple.

"Step away from the captain, ma'am," MacKenzie said, "or I will shoot you dead right here."

Senn's eyes never left Archer's but she took one step backward, then another. MacKenzie's grip on the pistol didn't waver.

"My ship," Senn growled, "has traveled in and out of the Empire a hundred times. It will attract no notice." She paused to sneer at him. "Unless you want a war bird to blow you to pieces the moment you encroach on Imperial space."

Archer frowned. The scout ship had been outfitted with a tracking device, so that _Enterprise_ could at least follow their progress. Without it, they were at Senn's mercy – and he would have to hope that she wasn't leading them into a trap. Still, at the moment, she seemed to be the very definition of an immovable object. He nodded his head once, agreeing reluctantly.

"Be prepared to leave in six hours, as you measure it." There was a universe of threats left unspoken as she departed the room.

Archer didn't relax a muscle until all of the locks had engaged. Then he let out a breath and said softly, "I miss T'Pol already."

"Aye, sir," MacKenzie said.

The five hours of broken sleep Archer got were less than restful. He and MacKenzie shared the platform bed, with their duffel bags lined up end-to-end between them. It had been a while – on the order of years – since he'd shared a bed with anyone. He remembered lying stiffly next to T'Pol, under the watchful gaze of a roomful of disapproving Vulcan monks at P'Jem, trying not to shiver as she'd hogged the one thin blanket allotted them. He'd gotten about as much actual sleep that time as now. MacKenzie, on the other hand, had clearly mastered the skill of cat-napping. He could feel her falling into REM sleep for short periods of time, punctuated by long moments of watchful wakefulness.

The room had no windows, so his sense of time was distorted. When his communicator signaled a half hour before their rendezvous time, he was sure they'd been trapped in this room for days. He rose creakily and stretched, feeling around in the darkness for his boots. MacKenzie stirred, instantly awake, and sat up.

They both froze at the soft thud near the door. "Did you hear that, sir?" MacKenzie asked in a field whisper.

"Yeah. Might be Senn, but she's early." They listened. The thud did not repeat.

"It sounded accidental," the major said, unholstering her pistol. Archer slid silently off the bed reaching for his own weapon, just as the door – which he knew he'd locked – slid open halfway and several beings slipped inside.

MacKenzie vaulted over Archer in one leap, but with the door sliding shut, the room was almost pitch black and he lost track of her immediately. There were inky black shadows moving quickly, and he got off one short burst from his phase pistol toward the ceiling as a set of hands wrapped themselves around his throat. He heard MacKenzie grunt from across the room. Whoever this was, it was strong. He could feel the thump of his pulse as the blood backed up in his head. His elbow connected with what felt like a jaw, once, twice, and the hands slackened slightly. He kicked out with his bare feet, making no impact at all on his attacker. He hit the floor hard, and the being bounced his head off of the tile twice for good measure. He heard a bone crunch, and another snap. He felt eye sockets under his groping fingers, and gouged as if he were digging for clams. The hands around his neck let go; he'd found a vulnerable point.

In the darkness, there was another brief flash, and the sound of a body landing. Archer had finally found some leverage, and now pressed his forearm across a windpipe. It seemed to be working. He heard a slap of a hand on the wall, and the lights came on.

The blood covering MacKenzie's light brown shirt was more orange than red; not human, not hers. She was breathing heavily, and her neat duty ponytail had disintegrated into tangles around her face. Without a word, she shot the alien Archer was presently suffocating, and it went limp.

There were two other aliens in the room, humanoid, wiry. They both looked quite dead.

"Grab your kit," Archer ordered, snatching up his bag. "We're out of here."

The crowd was thinner in the main part of the complex. The two humans walked at a brisk pace, not quite running, Archer holding MacKenzie's upper arm so they would not get separated. They did not speak, trying not to draw attention to themselves. Archer wondered, as he hurried along, how long it would take the authorities – if there were any such thing on this world – to find the injured and dead aliens in their unit and trace them back to the humans. He did not care to find out how efficient their police system might be.

The ship complex was up ahead. In the dim light, he could see Senn waiting by her vehicle. She looked impatient and angry.

"I will not wait for you again," she snapped.

"Shut up and get in," Archer snapped back. "Move." He took a position just inside the airlock, pistol drawn, as Senn fired up the craft and maneuvered her into the mass of traffic taking off from the outpost. He wiped a streak of blood from the corner of his eye as they rockily achieved orbit, and turned to glance at MacKenzie. "You all right?"

"Yes, sir," she said, past a bloody and swollen lip.

"Not the time for human love games," Senn sneered. "I had heard that your species lacked self-control, but had not believed it. Now I know. Foolish."

If Archer hadn't been so tired and sore, he would have punched her. "Some _visitors_ broke in just before we left. Tried to kill us. You wouldn't know anything about that, now would you?"

"What are you accusing me of, human?" That time, she sounded fully Klingon.

"Nobody else knew we were in that room – and I suspect nobody would care, except somebody connected with you." Archer set the coordinates given to him by Soval. "Mighty big coincidence, I'd say."

Senn's sneer grew. "That is not logical. Why would I attempt to harm you when you have not yet been of any use to me? If I want to kill you, I will do it myself, and only after my mission is accomplished."

Archer already had a long list of Vulcans he'd love to airlock: Tolaris, Vanik, Dr. Orat. Senn had just shot to the top of the list. Anyone else was a distant second.

They would be traveling at warp two point three for at least a day. Archer set the auto pilot using the coordinates Soval had given him and crawled aft, leaving Senn in the pilot's compartment. The scout ship was built for two people, not three, not even counting the amount of space Senn took up. From time to time, the Vulcan would cast a dirty look toward them; Archer supposed the smell of the two humans just made her that much more bad-tempered.

MacKenzie had the beginnings of an impressive shiner next to her left eye. He expected that he didn't look much better. Still the MACO made no complaints. Instead, she pitched her voice as low as she could and said, "Sir? May I speak freely?"

"I've already given you permission to do that, Major," Archer reminded her.

"Thank you, sir." She paused, choosing her words carefully nonetheless. "Sir, I'm not sure that Senn is on the same side as we are. It may be wise to come up with a Plan B, just in case."

"I'll give that some thought, Major. I want you to, as well." He took a deep breath. "Even if that Plan B means leaving me behind and getting the hell out of Klingon space."

MacKenzie stiffened. "I could never do that, sir! My orders are to protect you."

"And Lieutenant Reed would have your head, right?"

A flicker of humor passed across MacKenzie's face. "He _was_ pretty clear about that, sir."

Archer chuckled despite himself for a second. Some things just didn't ever change. "I want you to listen to me _very_ carefully, Major. Your orders on this matter come from me. You have my back, and I will have yours. But if it comes down to it, if I get captured by the Klingons, you are to get yourself, and Advocate Kolos if you are able, _out_ of Klingon space. Go straight to the meet-up point, and do not come back for me. There are enough motivated Klingons who want to see me dead in a number of different ways, and if they catch me, there won't be anything you can do about it. Don't try. Leave." He pinned her with his green gaze. "Are we clear, Major?"

"Yes, sir, crystal clear, sir," she responded immediately. He almost believed her. "Sir? Why is this Klingon Advocate so important? Why do the Vulcans want him out so badly?"

Archer shook his head. "As I understand it, there's some deep political advantage to having him on 'our' side rather than 'their' side." His own reasons stemmed from before MacKenzie's tour of duty on _Enterprise_. Before the Xindi, before he was forcefully disabused of the notion that he was meant to be a galactic good guy. "As for why me? Well, I was tried and sentenced to death by the Klingon Tribunal. Advocate Kolos defended me, and that sentence was commuted to life imprisonment on the dilithium mining penal colony, Rura Penthe. But Kolos challenged the Tribunal, spoke truth to power, and was sentenced himself to a year there as well. _Enterprise_ rescued me – after the Vulcans arranged a series of substantial bribes to the right people – but Kolos wouldn't escape with me. He opted to serve out his term." Archer chuckled again, this time mirthlessly. "Klingon stubbornness. All this time, I thought he was dead. I owe him my life – literally. I couldn't _not_ try."

"Have they reinstated your death sentence? Is that what Senn was referring to?"

"_Oh_, yeah. They caught me again but the bounty hunter grew a conscience just in time and helped me escape, and then _Enterprise_ narrowly got away another time, right before we went into the Expanse."

"So, they're kind of persistent," MacKenzie observed.

"Mm-hm." Archer glanced in Senn's direction. "There's a lot of money at stake. Not sure if that will outweigh whatever loyalty to Vulcan she's got left."

MacKenzie followed Archer's glance. "Aye, sir."

"Just keep it in mind, Major." The captain slouched against the bulkhead and folded his arms. "We'll be flying for a while. Try to get some sleep."

* * *

_Sleep, child_. That was the last thing she heard before unnatural blackness overtook her. Now, waking with a jolt and a gasp, she doesn't know how long she was unconscious; long enough for her shoulders to stiffen and the air to turn stale. She sits up slowly, carefully. Only the floor lights are on. Even the console is dark.

She hears the metallic clank again, the one that woke her up. It shakes the room, stronger than the underlying constant vibration that should be felt, but isn't. She rises to her knees, and her foot nudges a large, soft object. Almost against her will, she turns her head and, in the dimness, can make out only the pale grey face of her companion. His eyes are closed as if in slumber, but she can tell that he is dead. She looks around the room, recognizing it as the passenger cabin of the vessel _R'Var_.

There is more banging at the airlock, systematic and deliberate. Whoever it is must be attaching an override, trying to disengage the lock. She waits for the tell-tale hiss of atmosphere equalizing, and sits back on her heels. She is not afraid. This is what she was sent here to do. She centers herself.

The beings who enter are large, massive in comparison to her tiny frame. They own the cabin as soon as they enter, roughly flinging aside the limp body of the pilot, nudging her companion's corpse with a boot, passing by her as if she were a piece of luggage. One enormous set of feet backtracks, and she looks up calmly. The ruddy face reminds her of that last sehlat, the one who stalked her even after the other ones had slunk away, nursing the injuries inflicted by her booby traps. A growl slides out of that face, through sharp fangs, and she is yanked up into the air by one spiked gauntlet.

The masters didn't teach her Klingon, and that decision saves her life. She stares uncomprehendingly as the face barks at her, the hand shakes her in frustration and anger when she doesn't answer. She knows what they're demanding; she does not have the words to answer.

Finally, another being snatches her away and stuffs her into a leather bag that is only slightly longer than she is tall. She knows that the vessel doesn't contain any treasures or anything of value.

Except her.


	3. Interception

Chapter Three - Interception

Just as Archer was restraining himself from asking, _Are we there yet?,_ Senn turned around in the pilot's chair (which she had occupied for the duration of the journey, despite the ship being on auto-pilot) and said, "We will be entering Empire space in one hour." Archer stood up painfully and ambled over to check the navigation readout. By his calculation, Senn was being very generous with her boundaries, unless the Klingons had annexed another million kilometers since this astral map had been updated by the Vulcans. He didn't think pointing out that discrepancy would be either useful or well-received. He noticed that the coordinates were different than the ones he had set.

"We're off course," he said.

"The destination is the same," the Vulcan answered. "We are approaching from a different vector."

Archer pulled up a map of the system. "Yeah, over the river and through the woods - we'll be adding days to our trip. Put us back on course."

"Your course will take us through a heavily-traveled trade route. We may encounter vessels along the way."

"It's faster," Archer insisted. "I don't want to be in Klingon space any longer than I absolutely have to. Certainly not an extra week."

Senn spared a glance in his general direction, and sneered, "Do you humans not expect to be scanned by the nearest battle cruiser as soon as we are in range?"

"Actually, our plan is a little more sophisticated than that," Archer replied. He was not about to explain to Senn just how much data _Enterprise_ had acquired from its very thorough scans of the Klingon vessels it had encountered, enough, anyway, to know the limits of the average cruiser's sensors.

"The first crew who comes across this ship will claim it, and you will be captured," Senn predicted smugly. "Your human bio signs will give you away."

This was a perfect time to let her in on the next phase of the plan. "They won't even know we're here." He pulled a small device from his inner pocket and leaned toward the console, as close as he dared. He saw her nostrils flare in distaste at his no-doubt sour smell, and her arm muscles tense at his proximity. "See, a Vulcan and two Tellarites in a small ship, equipped with the bare minimum of armaments, hardly a threat. Especially since your ship has a long record of doing business along the outskirts of the Empire."

"You are not a Tellarite," Senn pointed out, "and your human bio-signs will give you away."

"No, but they won't _find_ any human bio-signs. All you have to do is answer any hails, tell whoever is calling that you have two passengers – make up a reason or don't give one at all, it doesn't matter—and they won't think twice about it." Senn looked skeptical in that peculiarly Vulcan way, so Archer continued, "Just be yourself."

Suspicion flared in Senn's eyes. "And what do you know about me, that you would say that?"

Archer didn't back down; to do so would grant her the upper hand, and he'd never get it back. Regardless of her pointed ears and slightly upswept eyebrows, Senn was closer to Klingon than Vulcan. He had no intention of testing the strength of her loyalty to the Vulcan government. "I know that you have the ability to come and go throughout Klingon territory as you wish," he said. "That tells me that you have proven yourself in some way worthy of that honor." He lowered his voice. "Otherwise, you'd be_ a slave_."

Senn went still. He'd pushed a button, deliberately.

"I am not a slave."

"I know, that's what I just said," Archer responded quickly. He let his eyes roam over the console, ostensibly to check the readings, but more to let her find her temper. "You know," he went on idly, "considering how Klingons treat the races they conquer, I find it really interesting that a Vulcan would achieve such an honored place in Klingon society. I'd love to hear how that happened."

"It is not your concern, human." Senn said – but she hadn't put any force into her words, so Archer waited. After a moment, Senn sighed almost imperceptibly. That little bit of surrender reminded Archer strongly of T'Pol. He waited.

Senn poked ineffectually at the gauges on the console, checking the speed and attitude of the craft, both of which were constant and had been for hours. She seemed almost reticent, and without her bluster, Archer could see that, although she certainly would dwarf T'Pol, she wasn't really that big – not Klingon-sized, anyway. Much of her power came from the way she carried herself, how she communicated just by her presence that she could kill you without breaking a sweat. Now, she sat silently, her face clouding with the memories.

"Soval said he trained you before you were chosen for this mission," Archer prompted softly.

"He trained me for the _kahs-wan_," Senn corrected him. "He was very thorough."

"The . . . _kahs-wan_, what's that?"

Senn shot him an irritated look. "All Vulcan children are required to complete certain rituals before they can be accepted into adult society. One of these is a physical test of endurance. A child is taken to the desert and must survive on her own for ten days without assistance."

This sounded familiar. T'Pol had mentioned something once about being left in the desert as a child. "Aren't there those _sehlat_ animals in the desert?" he asked.

"There are. You have seen a _sehlat_, on Vulcan?"

Archer huffed a self-deprecating laugh. "Saw it, heard it, ran for my life from it." Clambering up the cliff away from the screaming creature, that was the only time he had ever seen T'Pol even close to being scared.

"I fought several, and was not killed," Senn said, matter-of-factly. "My performance in the _kahs-wan_ qualified me to be considered for this mission. After several more tests, I was chosen. "

"Wait," Archer said, a sudden wave of revulsion washing over him. "How the hell old were you when you began this mission?"

"The equivalent of nine Earth years."

It was half a minute before Archer could speak, and then, only in a near-whisper. "Are you telling me that the Vulcan High Command sent a nine-year-old _child_ alone into the Klingon Empire on the hopes that you'd live long enough to _spy for them_?" Suddenly, use of the monks at P'Jem to hide a listening station didn't seem so bad.

Senn tilted her head. "No," she said, "I was not alone. I had a companion, Master Sodek, who accompanied me until our ship was discovered. Then it was time for him to die, so he did."

Archer couldn't formulate any thought that wasn't a string of profanities, so he held his mouth shut with his fist.

"I was rescued by the one of the House of Kadul, who took me in. I stayed there for many years." She studied Archer's expression of disbelieving horror, and bared her non-existent fangs. "I was never a slave," she said, and turned her back on him in dismissal.

Archer stared at the back of her head for a long moment, until MacKenzie said quietly behind him, "Sir, the transmitter is ready. We should probably install it and test it before we get much closer."

"Right," the captain said, still trying to put the image of a tiny Vulcan girl left adrift in Klingon space out of his mind. He squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. "Recalculate the route, but I don't want you adding any more than a day - an _Earth_ day - to our travel time."

She didn't bother to answer.

* * *

He is the master of the house, clearly. He barks orders in his strange, shouty language. It hurts her ears, and she tells herself that she must get used to it and stop flinching. He gets annoyed when she flinches. The woman, his mate, slaps a plate down on the table in front of her. The food there is moving. She looks up, her expression stoic. She runs through the possibilities in her mind: push the offending food away, and endure his anger. Choke the food down, vomit it back up, and endure his anger. She does not see a suitable solution. She runs a delicate finger along the rim of the plate, gathering the sticky liquid on its tip, testing it on her tongue. It is salty, bitter, most likely the blood of this unfortunate animal, but not impossible to swallow. She dabs a tiny bit more on her fingertip, and raises her eyes. The woman snatches up the plate and stomps toward the cooking counter, returning fifty-six point four seconds later with a bowl full of the dark gravy. There is a spoon, and she is hungry. In no time, she is full, and sleepy. She puts her head down next to the empty bowl, and everything fades away.

When she wakes, she is curled up on a pallet on the floor. It is not uncomfortable, although the heavy blanket covering her smells like decay. Beneath the blanket, she is wearing only her undergarments, a short sleeveless shirt and leggings. She pushes the blanket to her waist, and the cool air feels pleasant on her bare arms. Whatever this planet is, its climate is temperate, at least for the time being.

Her movement attracts the attention of the woman, whom she has decided must be the mistress of the house. Mistress strides over, her expression unreadable. One large hand reaches out and pinches the pointed tip of her ear. She is trained not to flinch from minor discomforts like this. Mistress narrows her eyes. Next comes an exploration of her upswept eyebrows, her smooth hair, and her blunt teeth. A methodical examination of her body follows: her clothing lifted and tugged aside, the skin of her abdomen poked with a sharp finger, her inner arm scored with a large serrated knife, just enough to leave a thin line of green droplets, quickly staunched with a cloth. She

Mistress walks away for a moment, consulting a padd. "_Romulusha_," she mutters. "_VholQosha_." After a moment she returns, padd still in hand. On the screen is a Vulcan woman, nobody she recognizes, but it is clear to her that the picture is from at least a generation ago. "_VholQosha_," Mistress says decisively, and puts away her reference book.

In the morning, when she awakens again, she will be Aperokai, of the House of T'Var.

* * *

It wasn't until the third day that they caught the attention of a Klingon ship. Senn identified it as one she'd not encountered before, non-military class, a merchant vessel of some kind. Archer watched the Vulcan's long, slim fingers dance across the communications board. To his unspoken question, she answered tersely, "I am sending my registration signal. They should not trouble us."

She had barely finished the sentence when the board beeped. "Is that a hail?" MacKenzie asked.

Senn nodded warily. "They shouldn't require anything more than what I have sent them." The console beeped again. Archer switched on his UT.

"_Trader vessel. This is restricted space. Power down and prepare to be boarded."_

Senn slid over to navigation panel, and glanced at Archer in evident confusion. "This area is unclaimed." She opened a frequency. "This is the trade vessel _K'ruhg_. By whose authority do you claim this space?"

There was no immediate answer, but Archer stiffened. "If I'm not mistaken, they've charged weapons." He pointed at the weapons display. "Is that all you have for firepower?"

"Two turrets and an aft cannon. We're no match." As if to punctuate that thought, the vessel unleashed a powerful shot within meters of the starboard bow. The little ship shuddered.

"_Prepare to be boarded."_

Archer closed the channel. "My guess, pirates. They're not even pretending to be seizing the vessel on authority of the Empire. What do you normally carry?"

"Navigational supplies, component parts. Nothing valuable in and of itself." At Archer's look, she added, "I build systems. I don't trade in gems or latinum. There is nothing aboard that is intrinsically valuable. . ."

All three faces fell at the same time. "Except us," MacKenzie said. "I don't think the Tellarite signal fooled them."

"Maybe, maybe not," Archer said, not willing to go down without a fight. "Try hailing them again, maybe offer them something. See what they really want."

Senn maneuvered the ship into a more defensive position. Her fingers flew across the console, and ship schematics flashed across her screens faster than Archer could recognize them. The other ship sent another hail, which Senn ignored.

Archer stepped up to her and placed a hand on her arm. "We can't help you if we don't know your plan."

Without taking her eyes off the screen, she snapped, "That ship is capable of warp two point six. We cannot out run it at our top speed. But -" she took a millisecond to stab at the screen with her index finger, "a shot here will produce a feedback burst that will require a manual reset. Forty seconds, maybe one minute. That is all the time we need to get where we're going."

"Tell me what I'm aiming at." Archer leaned over the console to study the targeting mechanism. Senn didn't answer. Archer grabbed her by both shoulders and spun her around in her seat. "Can you drive and shoot at the same time?" he demanded.

Archer saw his life pass before his eyes as very Klingon rage raised her very Vulcan fist. At that moment, however, a blast of energy struck the outer hull, and the systems inside the ship blinked off briefly. The instant of zero-gee was quickly followed by a crush of at least one and a half times Earth normal, leaving Archer and MacKenzie both crunched up against the bulkhead. The major rolled to her feet first and gave the captain a hand up, then gathered up the weapons she had laid out at the ready.

"Dammit, Senn, what am I shooting at?" Archer yelled, powering up the weapons. Not letting his mind wander through the distressing scenario that would ensue if he missed, he narrowed his focus to that one vulnerable spot on the attacking ship, and fired. The other ship rolled, as if in pain, and a thick trail of vapor escaped from its underside. "_Go_!" he shouted.

Senn punched it, and the inertial dampeners, wholly inadequate, struggled to compensate. Archer felt as if someone were trying to rip his skin off. He felt the deck beneath him shudder so strongly he was sure that it was changing the cadence of his heartbeat. _Enterprise_ handled warp speed with smooth grace; this felt more like going over a waterfall in a barrel. He hoped he wouldn't disgrace himself completely by vomiting.

He was barely successful. Waves of nausea swept over him relentlessly; he had never been seasick in his life, but now felt as if he were being tossed about in a hurricane. The air inside the ship was stale and moist—and the great gulps he took only made his insides roil more. There was pressure, too, the sudden claustrophobic confinement of gravity gone wrong. He braced his hands against the deck and deployed every trick he'd ever learned in anti-grav training about avoiding the pukes, desperately.

Finally, Senn's ship ceased doing whatever the hell it was doing, and the familiar beat of the powerful engine took over. Archer could tell that they were not traveling at warp, or even at impulse. They were drifting.

Barely able to focus, he searched about for MacKenzie. She was curled up in a tight, miserable ball, her arms wrapped tightly around her torso. He could hear the ragged in-out of her breathing: in through the nose, out through the mouth, slowly getting it back under control. She looked as green as a new cadet. He thought about saying her name, but couldn't trust himself to open his mouth.

After a moment, he realized MacKenzie had begun speaking, but not to him. No, she was muttering just under her breath, staccato syllables forced out between clenched teeth. He listened and was shocked—and a little impressed, in spite of himself. He recognized most of the words, some of the filthiest, most violently offensive words in several languages, not limited to English, or even human, strung together haphazardly but effectively. There was Travis' favorite (one which, the helmsman had confided, had almost gotten him keel-hauled by his own mother one time), and several gems obviously contributed by Trip. Most were physically impossible, unimaginable even, but the profane recitation seemed to bring MacKenzie back to herself.

No wonder she was otherwise so laconic, if all of that was stored up in her head.

Presently, Senn's boots came into his corner vision. He closed his eyes for a moment to gather himself, then pushed up into a sitting position. Immediately, klaxon alarms began to scream painfully in his head. He tilted his face only slightly towards the Vulcan. "What in the hell was that?" he asked faintly.

Senn sank down to her haunches, studying his face carefully. "You are sturdier than you appear," she said. It did not sound like compliment.

"The hell?" Archer managed again.

"I made use of the Gradhah Pass," she said, "a subspace corridor. We could not outrun that cruiser."

"Subspace . . . corridor." Archer put his head in his hands. "A little warning would have been nice."

"Unnecessary," Senn answered dismissively. "I was not certain you would survive the Pass. Had you not, no conversation would have been necessary. You did. It is done. Forewarning would not have changed anything."

_I hate you. I hate you. _Archer couldn't process much through the piercing agony in his skull, but he could manage that. If they had not been drifting in the middle of hostile Klingon space, he would have airlocked her ass in a heartbeat and headed for home. With a groan, he dragged himself up and staggered to the navigation console.

"How far off-course are we?" Archer asked.

"I know exactly where we are." There was defiance in Senn's expression. It made him unaccountably nervous.

"That's not what I asked you," he retorted. He reached out to adjust the nav display. His movement was arrested abruptly by an iron vise grip. He dropped his gaze to the hand circling his wrist, then fixed it on her face. "Let go of my hand, Senn," he said quietly.

In the next instant, MacKenzie had trained her weapon on the Vulcan. Archer knew that the major would hit her target with her first shot, a split second after he gave her the go. Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head, ordering her without words to hold her fire. Her pistol remained leveled at Senn.

Over the years, Archer had learned to read T'Pol's stillness, to catch the fleeting emotions she insisted she did not have, much less show. Even before the trellium, his First Officer's face had transmitted her thoughts more clearly than she would ever admit.

In comparison, Senn's face shouted at him, broadcasting rage, fear, and distrust. She could not cede any of her power, because that would be weakness, and weakness was anathema to the Klingon way.

And if Senn were anything, she was a Klingon, regardless of her Vulcan biology.

"If we're going to locate Kolos and get him safely out of Klingon space," Archer said softly, "you're going to have to trust me." Senn didn't move, didn't relax her hand even a tiny bit. Archer's arm was beginning to go numb. He tried a different tack. "Look, I have a debt to pay, and I need your help. I know how much you value honor, so you know I don't take this mission lightly. I gave you my word – I give it to you again now – I will help you rescue Kolos. But you're going to have to trust me."

Ever so slowly, Senn loosened her grip on Archer's wrist. He could feel bruise forming, all the way down to the bone. "I do _not_ trust you, human," she said finally. "Your treachery is known far and wide throughout the Empire."

"Then kill us both right now," Archer replied. "If you believe we are here to betray you, it's easy enough for you to dispose of us, and Soval would never know the difference." He tilted his head a bit, bringing his face down to her level. "But you can't do this alone. You're Vulcan enough to see that. You need us to convince Kolos to escape." She stared back stonily. "It's your choice, Senn. Trust us, or fail in your mission."

She released his arm and turned away. "We are sixty million light years from our destination. I do not need your help to navigate. Recharge yourselves."

Archer took that to mean, _Go get some rest, partner; I'll take the watch_. Or something like that. He was reasonably certain that she would not take the opportunity to kill him in his sleep. He walked slowly over to where his and MacKenzie's thin pallets lay and lowered himself awkwardly to the deck. MacKenzie followed suit, although she sat against the bulkhead with her pistol in her lap. Whatever temporary détente Archer and Senn had reached, MacKenzie wasn't having any of it.

He hoped the two fierce warrior women would not feel the need to shoot each other while he slept.

He hoped that he had not signed his own death warrant by trusting Senn.


End file.
