Act three
Charles Tucker was worried.
There was very little evidence of it on his face as he leaned back in his command chair, but, with each passing second, he grew more and more concerned. It was to be expected, of course. Endeavour was at the tip of the spear, the vanguard for the entire strike group as they raced toward the subspace corridor that would carry them to within striking distance of the Xindi homeworld. Concealed deep within a nebula, it would shave weeks off of the already four month-long journey. And they needed every shortcut they could manage; this damned Expanse had already claimed two ships of the strike group with their hull-crushing anomalies.
Out of the corner of his eye, Charles noticed T’Pol shift fractionally at the science station and fought to keep a grimace off of his face. Over two months had passed since their aborted … encounter in the shower, and, per his order, she had made no further attempt to seduce him. Obedience to that directive hadn’t stopped her from flaunting her nudity in his presence though, and each night when they retired, she climbed into their bed completely nude. More often than not, Tucker woke to find her halfway sprawled atop him like a lover, an almost proprietary grip on him. It made sleep difficult, knowing that she was there and so willing, and days went by when Tucker wondered why the hell he even bothered. Each time he felt his resolve weakening, though, he conjured up memories of the agony booth and how callously she had treated him. That usually worked to strengthen his determination, even as he tried to figure out why he so fought against what seemed to be inevitable.
Sometimes, Tucker suspected that he was going insane.
“Status report,” he demanded, mostly to get his mind off of the memory of how intoxicating the feel of her body against his was or how her hair smelled early in the morning. His words came out harsh and loud, which perfectly reflected his dark mood. A frisson of amusement seemed to wash across his awareness, and Charles ignored it. He was getting good at ignoring that particular sensation, especially since it had a completely foreign feel to it.
A Vulcan feel.
“All stations reporting ready,” Lieutenant Devereux announced from her station. As usual, the communications officer kept her head down and her attention focused entirely on the small screen before her. Years earlier, when Tucker had first recruited her for this assignment, she had been almost frivolous; that had died alongside the Andorian engineer Drahn.
“Weapon systems are green,” Eisler stated. “Combat teams standing by for instructions.” The major shot a less than discreet look at the master chief manning the DCO board and, when Eisler spoke again, a hint of heat entered his voice. “I’ve issued the lockdown order. Any personnel found in restricted areas will be shot on sight.”
With effort, Tucker managed to keep from sighing in disgust. The ongoing strife between Major Eisler and the COB hadn’t escaped his notice; even before Soong had mentioned the conflict, Charles had been wondering what he should do to resolve the situation. T’Pol’s solution was simple: kill Mackenzie and make him an example for the rest of the crew. She had made no attempt to conceal her distrust of the COB, and sided with Eisler every single time there was an incident aboard the ship, no matter how tenuous or circumstantial any evidence was. They made a terrifying combo, the major and the Vulcan first officer, and Tucker found himself agreeing with them more and more. It did seem like it was only a matter of time before he’d have to kill Mackenzie and a preventive strike could save a number of lives.
Anger flashed through him then as he realized that he had finally sunk as low as the late and unlamented Jonathan Archer. After years of trying to avoid it, Tucker found himself playing the stupid Imperial game. In his sixteen years of service, Charles had seen the end result of the back-stabbing and political manipulation that seemed intrinsically tied to promotion. Admittedly, he’d done his share of blackmail, but that had been directed against a sociopathic empress in order to get a measure of freedom that he would otherwise be denied. If Sato had her choice, Tucker suspected he’d still be on Earth, shackled to the Defiant’s warp core with orders to reproduce technology a century beyond his comprehension. If there was any way at all to get away with it, Charles would just as soon take T’Pol and flee human space forever. He blinked in surprise at that thought and once more wondered what the Vulcan had done to him.
Or why he kept allowing her to do it.
“Three minutes to target,” the subject of his musing said, and Tucker nodded without making eye contact. “Multiple warp signatures detected within two light-minutes of the subspace corridor.”
“Battle stations,” he ordered tersely. Lights dimmed as the offensive and defensive systems began sucking up power. “Show me,” Tucker told the Vulcan and the main viewscreen snapped to life.
Nearly a dozen of the now-familiar looking Xindi ships were weaving through the violet clouds that flickered and flashed. All of them bore signs of heavy action, with blackened hull plating that could only have come from intense weapons-fire. As far as he could tell, there was no sign of this wormhole they had been assured existed, and Tucker gave his first officer a sidelong look. Before he could even phrase his question aloud, she was replying to it.
“There is no visual evidence of the subspace corridor,” T’Pol stated coolly, and Charles tried not to think about how she knew what he was going to ask. “Scans confirm its existence, however.”
“Targets are moving to intercept,” Eisler snapped. “One minute to weapons range.”
“Send to all ships,” Tucker ordered. “Engage at will.” His stomach tightened in worried anticipation and he leaned forward in his chair. The sensation of being watched caused him to give T’Pol another glance; instantly, the tips of her ears darkened and she looked away, almost as if she were embarrassed at being caught. Charles frowned slightly at her unusual actions, but pushed it out of his mind. There was work to be done.
Proximity alarms began shrieking even as Endeavour’s guns began barking out fire. Steady streams of phase cannon fire flashed through the void, slicing into the hulls of two separate Xindi ships. Torpedoes screamed from the launch tubes and raced through the indigo clouds to detonate with fierce explosions; one of the Xindi ships was destroyed instantly as the warheads vaporized metal and flesh alike. Debris was sent spinning into the nebula as the ship broke apart under withering fire.
Before the Xindi ships could even retaliate, five of the Ares-class light destroyers flickered into existence, deactivating their cloaking devices only in the half-second before they opened fire with their pulse cannons. Reverse-engineered from captured or destroyed Klingon and Suliban ships, the cloaks only seemed to work (officially, anyway) on the smaller, wedge-shaped ships, but were nearly impossible to penetrate with modern sensors. In almost every single engagement since their deployment, their use had afforded Starfleet a massive tactical advantage.
Suddenly under assault by multiple ships instead of the one they had detected, the Xindi defensive formation splintered apart as each craft went evasive to avoid destruction from unexpected quarters. The entire nebula suddenly seemed to light up with explosions as phase cannons and plasma pulses hammered home. Two more Ares-classes shimmered into view, bracketing one of the damaged Xindi ships with brutal precision fire that punched through its outer hull. The craft wobbled slightly, and then started to straighten its flight path when Endeavour’s phase cannons stabbed into it with crippling results. No longer able to power its hull plating, the Xindi ship became little more than mobile target practice for the two Ares-classes on its tail. Their pulse cannons stitched gruesome scars across the craft, systematically ripping it apart.
And just like that, the battle was over.
“Damage report,” Tucker demanded, though he knew it wasn’t necessary. None of the Xindi ships had even managed to hit Endeavour with their own weapons, and he doubted than any of the smaller Ares-classes had suffered more than superficial paint scarring.
“No damage,” Mackenzie replied from the DCO board.
“All weapon systems still green,” Eisler announced at the same time. Charles glanced toward the science board and T’Pol answered his unspoken query.
“Nine Xindi craft destroyed, two crippled,” she reported calmly. “The Mao Zedong and Khan Singh are maneuvering to board them.”
“Lieutenant Devereux,” Tucker said with a dark frown. “Send to the Mao and the Khan: belay the boarding action.” It would mean the destruction of the two ships, but Fleet Command – which was to say Empress Sato – had been clear: no prisoners. “Mister Hsiao, resume our previous heading, maximum impulse.”
“Aye, sir,” Devereux and Hsiao replied in unison. The helmsman shot the communications officer a smile that she feebly returned before focusing again on her board. Charles narrowed his eyes at the interaction and filed it away for future reference.
“T’Pol,” he started to say, but the Vulcan again anticipated his instruction and reoriented the image on the viewscreen. A digital overlay appeared around the still invisible subspace corridor, mapping out its boundaries and giving Charles a sense of its size. He rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek and realized he was gripping the command chair’s armrests so tightly that his knuckles were white.
“Thirty seconds,” Hsiao stated as Endeavour raced toward the unseen wormhole.
“Shields at maximum,” Tucker ordered. A flicker of apprehension caused him to draw in a deep breath, but he ignored it, recognizing at once that it didn’t feel like his own thoughts.
“Curious,” T’Pol murmured, and Charles turned his attention to her. No one else seemed to have noticed her comment.
“What?” he asked, and the Vulcan gave him her equivalent of a startled look, complete with raised eyebrow. Suddenly, he wondered if she had actually spoken or if he had imagined it.
“I am detecting unusual field fluctuations within the corridor,” she answered.
“Ten seconds,” Hsiao declared. Charles ground his teeth together and pressed the transmit button on the comm.-panel integrated into his command chair. There was no time to examine the fluctuations and he found himself praying that it meant nothing.
“All hands brace for impact,” Tucker snapped.
Moments later, white light consumed them all.
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