Command

Author: Transwarp

Rating: PG-13

Genre: Action/Drama

Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

Summary: War breaks out with the Romulan Empire, and T'Pol assumes command of a Starfleet frigate. This is the third story in a series (order of stories: 'Commissioning', then 'Liaison', then 'Command').

TWELVE
Chosin, Teneebian sector, 24 Feb 2159

"Captain's on the bridge."

Lieutenant Koussa had the watch, and he slid from the captain's chair as T'Pol approached. She did not take a seat, but continued past the chair to stand behind the sensor station and peer over the shoulder of crewman McGuire, the suddenly apprehensive sensor operator.

"Status, Lieutenant?" Her question was directed at Koussa, but her eyes never left the sensor board.

"Heading 42 by 26 at warp six," Koussa responded. "Fourteen hours from rendezvous point at present course and speed. No activity on sensors. Normal wartime cruising, all systems green."

"Comm, have we received reports of any Romulan activity in the sector?"

"No, Khart-lan."

T'Pol gave no outward reaction to the news, but Koussa had the distinct impression she was troubled by the answer. She walked back to her chair, still not taking a seat, and pressed a button on the arm. "T'Pol to Lieutenant Graham."

Several seconds passed before her Operations Officer responded. "Graham here, Captain."

"I would like you and Chief Verley to join me in my office."

"Aye, ma'am. On our way."

T'Pol glanced at Koussa. "You have the bridge, Lieutenant." Then she was gone, as quickly as she had arrived.

Koussa exchanged a quizzical look with the sensor operator and returned to the captain's chair. "Looks like Khart-lan's bothered that there's no sign of the rommies," he said. "Personally, I think it's great--we get the freighter to Teneebia in one piece, then head for Lalande. In and out. I'd just as soon not tangle with four foxtrot-class escorts, given a choice. Maybe we'll get lucky this time."

McGuire shrugged. "A milk run would be nice, for a change," he said, "Lord knows, we've earned it."

#####

T'Pol was waiting in her office when Graham and Verley arrived. "Captain?" Graham inquired.

"It has been twelve days since the Romulan vessels were sighted crossing our picket line," T'Pol pointed out while her two subordinates seated themselves. "There have been no further sightings since then. This concerns me."

"Concerns me, too, Captain," Verley said.

Graham looked from T'Pol to Verley, and an ironic smile touched his lips. "Pardon my lack of concern, ma'am, but where I come from, the absence of Romulans is a good thing."

T'Pol ignored Graham's attempt at humor--at least, that's what she supposed it to be--and continued with her analysis, "By now, the Romulans have had ample time to reach the major shipping lanes in this sector. I have been expecting reports of attacks on merchant vessels for the past two days, but there has been nothing. It appears that I have been mistaken about Romulan intentions, hence my concern."

Verley nodded, a grim expression on his face. "There should have been some trace of them: a sensor contact; a warp trail; an intercepted transmission. Something. They've clearly gone to ground somewhere. The question is, where? And why? What are they up to?"

"Indeed. Perhaps one of you could offer a possible explanation for the Romulan's apparent inaction?"

Verley shook his head, and Graham looked blank. "Sorry, Khart-lan. I've got nothing." Graham said.

"Very well." T'Pol suppressed her disappointment. She had hoped one of those spontaneous leaps of human intuition would divine the Romulan Commander's intentions. "If something occurs to you, let me know. In the meantime, we must proceed with caution. Lieutenant, how is Galloway progressing on the construction of their six-packs?"

"They're done. They could only build four of them--they've used up their entire inventory of spare torpedoes."

"We still have some Mark 2 torpedoes in our hold. When we reach the rendezvous point, I want twelve of them transferred to Galloway," T'Pol directed. "That will allow them to build two more."

"Aye ma'am. Anything else, ma'am?"

"No. You are dismissed."

#####

Trinh clambered down the ladder to the ship's laundry on deck three. He called out as he approached the service window, "Hey, Moose." No answer.

"Moose?" he called again, leaning in through the window and looking around. He could see nothing but laundry bags in the small receiving area; dirty ones on the deck, clean ones on the shelves.

He was about to call again, but Moose peeked briefly through the doorway at the back of the room. "Oh, hey Dat. Be right with you," she said, before disappearing again into the bowels of the laundry.

"I go on watch in thirty minutes," he called at the now-vacant door. "But that's okay. Take all the time you need."

Moose reappeared, moments later and approached the window. "Sorry. Pick up or drop off?"

"Pick up."

Moose went through the bags of clean laundry on the shelves. "Nothing here for Trinh," she said, "looks like yours aren't done yet."

"But you've had them for two days."

Moose shrugged. "I'm down to two dryers. You want your stuff quicker, then get engineering to expedite my work order. I'm told it's not a high priority."

Trinh snorted. "I'll just show up for watch wearing my dirtiest uniform. I'll bet that gets your priority bumped."

"Yeah, especially if the Captain gets a whiff of you," Moose giggled.

She's kind of cute when she laughs, Trinh thought, followed immediately by, where did THAT come from? "So, when will my clothes be done?"

Moose shrugged. "Probably tomorrow, if you turned 'em in two days ago. Tell you what; I'll comm you when they're ready. Heck, if you're nice to me, I might even deliver them in person." She rested her elbows on the small shelf of the service window, and regarded Trinh with a look that seemed subtly different from her normal expression. Or maybe he was imagining it.

"Nice, huh? Don't know that I can do 'nice'. The sheriff back home said I was a regular hooligan."

"Really? A hooligan, huh? That's even better." A tiny smile touched her lips.

No, he was definitely not imagining it. Intrigued, he took a closer look at her. He found himself trying to remember why he had thought she was plain-looking. True, she was BIGGER than him, but not plain. Certainly not plain. Maybe she's done something to her hair..? "Say, are you going to be at movie night tomorrow?" he asked.

"I was considering it."

"Great. I'll save you a seat. We can watch it together."

"Okay." That was all she said, but her eyes seemed to sparkle.

Has she done something to her eyes, too? "I need to go..." he said.

"I know. You're on watch in thirty minutes. I'll see you tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night."

Moose watched Trinh leave the ship's laundry and disappear up the ladder, then she went back to the table by the dryers, where bags of clean laundry were waiting to be shelved. She grabbed a bag at random, and hugged it tightly to her chest. Spinning twice, she let out a squeal of pure joy. She placed the bag on the proper shelf, and turned to get the next one.

#####

Lieutenant Saracco leaned on the catwalk handrail and looked out over Chosin's engine room. This was her favorite time of the day; late evening, but not so late that she had any trouble staying alert. There were only five people in engineering--the three enlisted watch-standers, the Engineering Watch Officer (herself), and the Chief Engineer, leaning on the rail beside her. The engine room was quiet. Peaceful, even, or as peaceful as the engine room on a ship running at warp six could get.

ChEng was regaling her with tales of the early days of the warp five project, and she hung on his every word. After all, it gave her an excuse to look at him, and he was certainly easy to look at. Especially when he grinned at her with that grin. Or glanced at her with those expressive blue eyes.

Saracco sighed. She had once thought she had a chance with him. Sure, he was married... to a Vulcan. She'd figured there was no way he was getting the emotional comfort he needed, and she was more than willing to be there for him. Willing and able.

She had finally worked up the courage to approach him. It had happened back in the early days of the war. She could still remember how it had been: the constant, frantic activity, the unrelenting sense of urgency as Chosin and her short-handed crew got ready to fight. A fight that had not seemed winnable at the time.

There had been little respite--certainly no moments of comparative calm and tranquility such as she now shared with Commander Tucker--but there had been some down-time. She vividly remembered the first load-test of the ship's warp core, a grueling evolution involving massive plasma-containment cables snaking across engineering and out through ports in the hull, to a free-floating barge moored alongside the ship. The barge contained the dummy load banks that would replace the actual warp coils during the full-power engine tests. As usual, there weren't enough load banks to go around, so they had just two days to run a full course of tests and system alignments. It was a process that normally took five days.

Nobody in engineering slept for forty-eight hours.

At one point, ChEng called her into his office to discuss the next phase of testing. He had thrust a mug of hot coffee into her hand ("You look like you need this," he'd said) and unfurled a blueprint on his desk top. She could not for the life of her remember the time of day, or which phase of testing they had discussed. It was all a blur, now. But she vividly remembered what had transpired after his impromptu briefing.

They both sat at his desk, enjoying the breather while they finished their coffee. His hand rested on the blueprint, partially obscuring the schematic of the containment field feedback controller. I can't remember the time of day, but I can remember THAT?

Steeling her resolve, Saracco had let her own hand slide across the table and gently cover his. She tried to appear calm, but her heart beat fiercely at her boldness.

He had looked at her--a kindly look, she recalled--and just as gently disengaged his hand from hers. "Sorry, Luisa, it can't be that way," he told her.

Her face flushed crimson. She felt like crawling away to the darkest recesses of engineering and dying. "I--I'm sorry," she stammered, "I just thought--I thought... You're married to a Vulcan. I thought..."

"You thought I would need some human companionship?"

Dumbly, she nodded her head.

"That's not quite how it is." He had chuckled, but somehow she knew his amusement was not aimed at her. "Believe me when I tell you I get everything I need from my relationship."

His words, his expression, his body language--every part of him radiated satisfaction, confirming his statement. He DOESN'T need me, she realized, and here I am, throwing myself at him like a painted harlot. Her face flushed again, even deeper than before.

"It's okay," he said, attempting to alleviate her intense embarrassment. "Don't worry about it."

She nodded once more, and the incident was never spoken of again.

That didn't mean she forgot it, though. She began observing his interactions with the Captain. The first thing she noticed was the way they sometimes looked at each other. Not the saccharine look two lovers might share, but the look of two people engaged in a conversation, only without the words. Then there were the surreptitious touches, the quick caresses, the 'accidental' brushes, fleeting and hard to spot, but there if you watched closely (without seeming to watch). And finally, there were the strange episodes when they weren't even together. The uncanny way Commander Tucker had of seeming to know what was happening on the bridge, when he was nowhere near a data terminal or comm panel. The way he would suddenly get that look, distant and unfocused, just before he would announce that he had to leave.

In fact, he had that look right now.

"I've gotta go," he said, as if on cue.

"Captain need you?"

He shook his head. "Nah. I'm just out here killing time so I don't disturb her while she meditates. She's done now. I'll see you in the morning."

No way I could compete with THAT, Saracco thought, after he had left. Still, it would have been fun to try...

#####

Trip immediately noticed the music softly playing as he entered their quarters. "That's not opera," he observed. "I like it."

"You are correct," T'Pol said, not looking up as she folded and stored the thick quilt she used as a meditation cushion. "I am currently investigating orchestral works from Europe's classical and romantic periods."

"And I feel like I'm in a music appreciation class," Trip said with a wry grin. T'Pol could be very methodical when she delved into a new field of music. "Say, how come you never listen to Vulcan music?"

"Have you ever heard any Vulcan music?" T'Pol asked.

"Some. Didn't much care for it."

"Vulcan music is quite different from human music. It is intended to appeal to the intellect. To appreciate a Vulcan musical composition, you must appreciate its underlying mathematical structure. The complex interplays between patterns of tone and rhythm. The skill and patience required of the performers to learn and execute difficult passages. I am told humans find Vulcan music to be discordant. Atonal."

"Not to mention boring," Trip added. "Vulcan music is all head. It has no heart or soul."

"On the other hand, Vulcans do not appreciate human music. They find it to be repetitive and overly simplistic."

"But you listen to it," Trip pointed out.

"Yes. Because of our bond, I am able to safely access the emotions invoked by your music. Most Vulcans cannot. They would find it quite unsettling to even try."

"But Vulcans haven't always been so logical," Trip prompted. "Before the Awakening, there must have been some music that was more... more emotional."

"You must remember that Vulcan went directly from a warrior culture to a logical culture," T'Pol explained. "In historical terms, it happened very quickly. Pre-Awakening Vulcan music consists mainly of primitive celebrations of despotic rulers or military victories. Vulcan has no equivalent to the human renaissance. There was no opportunity for different musical styles to evolve."

"So, you're saying there's no good Vulcan music."

T'Pol considered Trip's statement briefly before answering. "In human terms, you are correct."

"I'm sorry, what was that you just said?"

"I believe you heard me the first time."

"Tell me again."

T'Pol suppressed a sigh. "I said you are correct."

Trip grinned in triumph. "Let the record show that on February 24th, 2159, I was correct. It may be another decade before it happens again."

"It is unlikely to happen again so quickly," T'Pol suggested, archly.

Trip chuckled at the slam, but let it go unremarked. "I need a shower. Care to join me?"

T'Pol shook her head, reluctantly, "Not tonight, my love. There are some tasks I must accomplish before the rendezvous tomorrow."

Trip pushed aside his disappointment. "Okay. Your loss."

She said nothing, but her eyes followed him as he disappeared into the shower. Then she sat at her console and got to work.

T'Pol was still at her desk when Trip came out of the shower. He looked over her shoulder and saw she was reviewing Chosin's comm logs. He didn't need the bond to realize she was looking for reports of Romulan activity. Those missing Romulan ships are really bugging her.

"Any sign of them?" he asked.

"No."

"Maybe they've already turned back. Maybe all they wanted was to get our merchant ships scurrying for the nearest port."

"It is unlikely they would have sent four foxtrot-class escorts if that was their intent. Two alpha-class vessels would have been sufficient, in that case."

"So, what is their intent?"

"I do not know, my love. That is what concerns me."

Trip snorted. "Who would've thought not seeing Romulans could be worse than seeing them? It's kinda like eating an apple."

T'Pol considered Trip's statement carefully before responding. "I fail to see any similarity to eating apples."

"Well, then. What's worse than finding a worm in your apple?"

"Two worms?"

Trip shook his head, "Nope. Half a worm."

T'Pol's eyes glinted with amusement. "Indeed."

#####

Romulan warbird Temmorax, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159

"Commander Rabus, we have been detected by the Starfleet corvette Galloway."

Rabus nodded. It was sooner than expected; those Coalition ter'ak must have upgraded their sensors again. "It is time to spring our trap, Kralok. Call the crew to action stations. Set a course for Galloway, maximum warp, Haskar and D'Gral in echelon-right formation."

"Yes, Commander."

"Raise Kholvius on the subspace link," he directed his Communication Officer. "They are to engage and destroy the Andorian Freighter Ketalan immediately."

"Yes, Commander."

"What is our time to intercept?" he asked Centurion T'Nala.

"Fifteen minutes, Commander."

"And what is the distance to Chosin?"

"Two-hundred twenty light-hours, Commander," T'Nala responded.

Almost an hour, at Chosin's maximum reported speed of warp 6.2, Rabus mused. An hour is sufficient time to finish Galloway. The elements of my plan are falling into place nicely.

#####

Chosin, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159

"Bridge to Captain T'Pol."

T'Pol placed her fork deliberately on her breakfast plate, rose from the table, and walked to the nearest comm panel. "T'Pol here."

"Ma'am, Galloway has detected three Romulan warbirds moving to intercept."

"I am on my way. Establish a data link with Galloway; stream their sensor channels."

"Aye, Captain."

Trip clamped a biscuit in his mouth--something he could eat on the run--and grabbed their trays, one in each hand. *I'll be in engineering,* he sent, as he headed for the trash chute.

T'Pol was already out the door. *We will go to flank speed as soon as I reach the bridge,* T'Pol replied. *I will need as much speed as you can provide, without endangering the engines.*

*Nothing new there,* Trip grumbled. *I can give you warp 6.8 for twenty, twenty-five minutes. Maybe.*

*I will take it, my love.*

T'Pol lost no time getting to the bridge. She began issuing commands before she was completely through the door. "Helm, set a course for Galloway, flank speed."

Lieutenant Walder jumped from the command chair, "Captain's on the--"

T'Pol cut her off, and addressed the watch-stander at the communications console, "Comm, open a ship-to-ship with Galloway. On screen."

"Aye, Khart-lan." He bent to the task, talking quietly into his headset. "Got 'em," he said, moment's later, "You're on."

The main view screen flickered and the tactical display was replaced by an image of Lieutenant Commander Mancusa on Galloway's bridge. "Galloway here," he stated. He was already in his pressure suit (one of the lightweight suits that Starfleet had developed shortly after the first battle of Lanus), but had not yet donned his helmet. In the background, the General Quarters alarm was still blaring. Mancusa looked off-screen and made a cutting motion across his throat. The GQ alarm went silent.

"Status?" T'Pol asked.

"Three Romulan foxtrots are on an intercept vector, bearing zero by zero. ETA is fifteen minutes," Mancusa replied.

T'Pol considered Mancusa's information. The three warbirds were approaching Galloway from a bearing directly along her line of flight. That could only mean one thing: the Romulans had been waiting for Galloway near the rendezvous point. But where is the fourth? she wondered. She had an unsettled feeling that she knew.

She gave Mancusa his orders. "Galloway, set a course for Chosin at flank speed. Make all efforts to evade the Romulan foxtrots until our arrival. Our ETA is thirty-two minutes." Left unsaid was the fact that the warbirds would arrive seventeen minutes before Chosin. She knew Mancusa had already done THAT calculation.

"Aye, Commander."

"Chosin out." T'Pol nodded at the comm station, and the link went down.

"Lieutenant Walder, sound General Quarters."

"Aye, Khart-lan."

"This is not a drill. General Quarters, General Quarters. All hands man your battle stations. This is not a drill." The strident tones of the GQ alarm reverberated through the ship, and a mad scramble ensued as crewmen dashed to their stations and donned their pressure suits.

The watch-standers on the bridge departed as they were relieved by the primary bridge crew. Lieutenant Graham took his place behind the primary weapons console, running through the torpedo fire control and launch diagnostics, while Ensign Bowman manned the secondary console, and powered-up the phase-cannons. The secondary weapons console had been an innovation of the Board of Dirty Tricks, when then-Ensign Graham had complained that he sometimes had difficulty maintaining effective phase-cannon fire while simultaneously targeting and firing torpedoes. A second sensor console had also been added, for much the same reason. In fact, even more stations would have been useful, but Chosin's small bridge had simply run out of space to put them.

Within a minute-and-a-half, all stations had checked in with the bridge. Lights on the Damage Control status board flashed to green, indicating doors and hatches were closed and blast barriers in place. "All battle stations manned and ready, Khart-lan," Graham reported. The ship was ready for action.

Chief Verley entered the bridge, standing next to the command chair. He keyed the private suit channel he shared with Captain T'Pol, "Any sign of that fourth foxtrot, ma'am?"

"No, Chief."

Before either could speculate any further, the question was answered. Walder looked up from the comm station, "Khart-lan, I'm receiving a distress call from Ketalan. They've detected a Romulan warbird closing at high warp, ETA ten minutes."

"There's our fourth foxtrot," Verley said.

It is as I feared, T'Pol thought, they are targeting the Andorian freighter. "Lieutenant Graham, what is Ketalan's range?"

"Eighty-six light-hours, ma'am. Sixteen minutes at flank speed."

Possibilities and options flashed through T'Pol's mind, but they invariably boiled down to a single fact: She could save Galloway, or she could save Ketalan. She could not save both.

"Lieutenant Walder, inform Ketalan we are unable to come to their aid. Petty Officer Trinh, maintain current course and speed."

"Aye, Khart-lan."

Chief Verley keyed the private channel again. "Captain, may I remind you our mission is to escort Ketalan to safety?"

"I am aware of that, Chief. However, if we carry out our mission, Galloway will be destroyed. Viewed logically, saving Galloway is better for the war effort than saving Ketalan. I must do whatever is most likely to shorten the war."

"Your logic is flawless, Captain, but my gut tells me this is trouble."

"What would you advise, Chief?"

Her question brought him up short. He knew Captain T'Pol had a high regard for his judgment in these matters. He suspected she would likely defer to whatever course of action he recommended. He would literally be deciding who lived and who died, and he suddenly felt a small measure of the enormous burden she carried all the time.

She was his Captain. She had earned his loyalty and respect a dozen times over. The LAST thing she needed was for him to second-guess her decisions. "Maintain course and speed, ma'am."

T'Pol's nod was visible through the helmet of her pressure suit. "I concur." The die was cast; there would be no going back, now.

"Where do you want me, ma'am?" he asked, as he had before every combat action since the war began.

"I would like you in the launch bay, helping with the six-packs."

"On my way."

As he left the bridge, he heard Lieutenant Walder's voice over the command channel, "Khart-lan, I have a ship-to-ship from Ketalan's Captain. He says it's urgent that he speak with you."

That was one call Verley was damned glad he didn't have to take.

#####

Temmorax, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159

"Commander, Chosin has changed course and speed. She is heading directly for us at warp 6.8."

It required a heroic effort for Rabus to keep the astonishment off his face; it would not do for his crew to believe he had been surprised. But warp 6.8? No Starfleet vessel had ever been observed traveling at that speed. The rumors that Vulcans are sharing their propulsion secrets with the Humans must be true, Rabus thought. This, despite Military Intelligence reports claiming that Vulcan warp technology was incompatible with Human ship design. Where the Coalition was concerned, very little of what Military Intelligence reported ever had any merit.

"Centurion T'Nala, what is their ETA now?"

"Thirty minutes, Commander."

Rabus almost frowned. He would have seventeen minutes to engage and destroy Galloway before Chosin was on top of him. Seventeen minutes. It wasn't much time, but it would have to be enough.

Kralok did frown. "Commander, if we recall Kholvius immediately, she can be here before Chosin arrives."

"No, Kralok. I want that Andorian freighter destroyed."

"Commander, the freighter is of no consequence. See how the humans abandon her? We need Kholvius here to defeat Chosin."

"Kralok," Rabus hissed, "control yourself. We are three fleet escorts against one frigate and a corvette. I will hear no more of this."

Subcommander Kralok subsided at the dangerous glint in Rabus' eyes. Intellectually, he knew Rabus was correct. The humans were clearly outnumbered and outgunned. He had no reason to worry. No reason at all. So why was he worried?

#####

Chosin, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159

Ensign Bowman checked the settings on his weapons panel one more time and tried not to look as nervous as he felt. Forty-two days ago he was just one among hundreds, an anonymous Ensign in the pool of replacements that Starfleet had sent to Lalande following the second battle of Lanus. He remembered his excitement--bordering on euphoria--when he had received orders to Chosin. He had basked in the envious looks of the other Ensigns, had shamelessly gloated at his good fortune.

Now, as they prepared to engage three foxtrot-class warbirds, he was thinking that his good fortune wasn't looking all that fortunate.

Nervous, hell. He was scared.

He cast furtive glances at the others around him, and envied their calm demeanors. Except for Ensign Litke at the secondary sensor console, they were all original crew members. They had been with Chosin from the beginning of the war. Everyone on the bridge, except him, had seen multiple combat actions. Even Litke had been at 6 Virginis and Lanus.

It wasn't that he didn't know what to do. He was a recent graduate of the Starfleet Bridge Officer's course, and for the past forty-one days had practically lived in Lieutenant Graham's hip pocket, going over and over every aspect of his duties as a weapons officer. Some of what he'd learned at the Bridge Officer's course he had to unlearn: Here, things were done the 'Chosin way,' which was just another way of saying Captain T'Pol's way.

Captain T'Pol--he had not yet earned the right to address her as Khart-lan--took an active interest in his training. She'd come by frequently to check on his progress and question him about what he had learned. She was present for many of the combat simulations that Graham had him run through, often standing directly behind him and silently watching his every move. The first few times she'd done that had been terribly unnerving, but he quickly learned to ignore her presence and focus on the tactical situation.

He would never forget the last simulation Graham had put him through. It had started out routinely enough, with Romulan warp signatures detected at extreme sensor range. Graham sat behind his own console, controlling the simulation and playing the parts of the other bridge stations. The door to the bridge had opened, and he was vaguely aware of Captain T'Pol's soft footsteps as she came to stand behind him, quietly observing.

The remote contacts had resolved into individual ships as they closed at... at... warp NINE? Twenty of them, no forty... he'd stared dumbly as the contact count incremented, finally stabilizing at two-hundred.

"What are you going to do now, Ensign?" Graham had asked.

"Uh... shoot at them, I guess." He opened fire with all phase-cannons, targeting the lead vessels. He noticed something odd about the way they were maneuvering, and took a moment to glance up at the main view screen. All thought of contact headings and firing solutions fled his mind as he realized he'd been had. The Romulan ships on the view screen had formed into words:

Welcome to the
bridge crew.

Raucous laughter filled the room, and he'd turned to find the entire bridge crew standing behind Captain T'Pol. They all sported wide grins, with the exception of the Captain. She just looked... Vulcan.

She spoke first, "Ensign Bowman, I have determined you are ready to assume your duties. Congratulations." Then she shocked him further by extending her hand. He had always been told Vulcans NEVER shook hands.

So, yeah, he knew what to do. The people around him knew what to do. Captain T'Pol sure as hell knew what to do. So why was he so scared?

He checked his panel one more time. Maybe it was the waiting. That was it; the waiting was getting to him.

Lieutenant Walder's voice brought him back to the present. "Khart-lan, Ketalan reports she's taking fire. Romeo-four has closed to disruptor range, and is engaging."

It's starting, Bowman thought. Icy fingers gripped his heart, and suddenly the waiting didn't seem quite so bad.

"Put it on audio, Lieutenant," T'Pol directed.

"Aye, ma'am." Walder streamed the transmissions from Ketalan through the translation matrix and over the bridge audio channel. As the Romulan foxtrot closed on Ketalan, disruptor hits became more frequent. The bridge crew exchanged helpless looks as they listened to Ketalan's damage reports and her Captain's frantic pleas for help.

Bowman could see Captain T'Pol clearly from his station, and he watched as she caught Lieutenant Walder's eye and gave her a subtle hand-gesture. Walder immediately cut the audio feed to the bridge, and subsequent reports of the carnage on Ketalan were filtered through her calm, dispassionate voice.

Within minutes, Ketalan's surviving crew were forced to abandon ship. Escape pods shot from the stricken vessel, dispersing in all directions. Moments later, the battered freighter broke apart under the merciless barrage of disruptor fire.

"I'm receiving distress beacons from twelve escape pods, ma'am. Ten pods with three survivors, two pods with two."

"Transmit their locations to Fleet, Lieutenant, then inform the escape pods we will begin rescue operations as soon as we have dealt with the Romulans."

"Aye, Khart-lan."

Walder turned to comply, but received an incoming message first. Her face hardened to stone as she listened on her headset. "Khart-lan," she said, her voice choked with anger and disbelief, "the Romulans are targeting the escape pods with their disruptors."

A shocked silence fell over the bridge. Bowman glanced at Captain T'Pol, whose only reaction was to close her eyes. It was just for a moment, but it was a moment that seemed to Bowman to stretch into eternity.

"Lieutenant Walder?" T'Pol asked, finally breaking the silence.

"Escape pod beacons have all ceased transmitting." Walder's voice had gone flat.

Ensign Bowman was stunned. Never had he encountered such a calculated display of pure evil. Even the Xindi, when they unleashed their weapon on Earth, had believed they were acting in self-defense. This was unimaginable. Inconceivable.

Thirty-four Andorians had made it to the escape pods. Thirty-four noncombatants. Thirty-four lives ended, so casually. So brutally. Thirty-four...

A hand on his shoulder brought him abruptly back to the present. It was Captain T'Pol. She spoke to him over his private suit channel, her voice calm and reassuring. "Remember your training, Ensign. Do your job, and leave the rest to me."

"Yes, Captain," he answered. She gazed at him for several more seconds, then nodded, apparently satisfied with what she saw, before returning to her command chair.

"Comm, open a ship-to-ship channel with Galloway. On screen."

"Aye, ma'am."

The view screen flickered, and the tactical display was replaced by the helmeted image of Commander Mancusa. "Galloway, ma'am."

"Ketalan has been destroyed," T'Pol said. "There are apparently no survivors."

"We reached the same conclusion," Mancusa said, his voice tight.

"The three warbirds pursuing you will be in disruptor range in the next two minutes," T'Pol said. "The Romulan Commander will want to reserve his torpedoes for use against Chosin. He will attempt to close with you and destroy you with disruptor fire. Evade him as long as possible. You may use torpedoes at your discretion, but the six-packs may only be deployed on my command."

Mancusa balked at that, "Chosin, I've got three foxtrots climbing up my ass. I'm going to need those six-packs."

"And I'm going to need the element of surprise. You have your orders, Galloway."

"Aye, Commander," Mancusa said, with obvious reluctance.

"Galloway, the Romulan Commander committed an error in judgment when he underestimated our speed. He has left himself insufficient time to destroy Galloway before Chosin arrives."

"Are you certain, Chosin? Seventeen minutes is a long time to hold off three foxtrots."

"Proper use of the six-packs will buy you extra time. On my command, you will deploy the first two six-packs in stand-by mode. They will be activated later."

A slow smile spread over Mancusa's face. "Aye, Commander."

"Chosin out."

Bowman checked his panel yet again. He was still nervous, but no longer scared. Those Romulan bastards are going to pay for what they've done.

#####

The engines howled, the deck shook, and the temperature in the engine room climbed steadily, but Trip had never been more proud of his engineers than he was at that moment. Chosin had been running at warp 6.8 for twenty-seven minutes, and could probably maintain it for another five, if needed. It was unprecedented.

He made the rounds from station to station, giving advice or encouragement as required. He stepped up behind Lieutenant Saracco at the main engineering panel. "How's the coolant temp, Luisa?" he yelled over the straining engine's roar.

"Right on the red-line," she yelled back. "Schmitt is venting plasma whenever the pressure gets too high. It keeps the core from overheating, but we'll have to top off when this is all over." She took a moment to blink the sweat from her eyes and curse the designers of the new pressure suits for their inadequate cooling systems. They were lighter, less cumbersome, and easier to don than the old EV suits, but they sure did get HOT.

An indicator blinked, drawing her attention to the intermix console. A quick glance revealed an engine parameter climbing out of tolerance, so she nudged the ratio down, then back up a hair to stabilize the reading. It was still too high, but not critically so, and Trip nodded approvingly. He clapped her on the shoulder, "Good job. Keep on it; Galloway is taking fire, and we're still three minutes out." Then he moved on to the next station.

Saracco's eyes never left her panel.

#####

Inexorably, the Romulan warships closed on Galloway. Despite her wild zig-zagging, disruptor hits came with increasing frequency. Chosin was still two minutes away when Galloway's aft shield generators failed under the Romulan onslaught.

The next hit blasted a hole in her hull, port-side aft, and a massive vapor plume erupted as a fresh water tank vented to space.

T'Pol judged it time to execute the next phase of her plan.

The ship-to-ship channel between Chosin and Galloway remained open, audio only, and T'Pol sent her directions to Commander Mancusa, "Galloway, this is Chosin. Deploy two six-packs in stand-by mode."

"Chosin, this is Galloway. Six-packs deployed."

T'Pol watched the sensor readings that showed two six-packs separating from Galloway and breaking into twelve inactive torpedoes. "Roger, Galloway. Maintain course and speed."

"Galloway aye."

#####

Temmorax, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159

"Galloway's rear shields are down, Commander."

"Continue firing," Commander Rabus ordered. His command was quite unnecessary--all three of his ships had maintained a constant rate of disruptor fire from the time Galloway had entered extreme range, and would not stop firing until she was destroyed.

"A hit! Galloway's hit. She's venting water."

Rabus smiled. It wouldn't be long now. He glanced at the tactical display. Chosin was still on an intercept course, and amazingly, still maintaining warp 6.8. She was now just two minutes from intercept. Rabus' smile became a savage grin. It had been a valiant effort on Chosin's part, but she would arrive too late. Galloway would not last another minute.

His sensor operator looked up from his station, "Commander, twelve objects were just ejected from Galloway."

Twelve objects..? Mines! "Helm, hard to port!"

The ships inertial dampers whined in protest as the startled helmsman abruptly changed course. Rabus instinctively gripped the arms of his chair as he felt the faint tug of uncompensated g-forces.

"Sensor station, report." Rabus snapped.

"Commander, the objects Galloway ejected are torpedoes. Twelve of them. They remain inactive."

Rabus pondered that information. Inactive. He wondered if it was a misfire, then decided it didn't matter. By forcing him to change course, the torpedoes had done their job and gained more time for Galloway. Even without firing. But now, he must continue the chase--the Starfleet vessels could not be allowed to escape. "Helm, resume course for Galloway, maximum warp."

Subcommander Kralok reacted to Rabus' command with alarm. "Commander, we cannot continue the chase with twelve torpedoes behind us! She will catch us in a crossfire. We must destroy them first."

"No Kralok, that is exactly what she wants. If I stop to destroy these torpedoes, it will give her time to escape. That is undoubtedly her plan."

Kralok stared in stunned disbelief, and cold fingers of fear crawled along his spine. Rabus must be blind not to see the obvious. Or blinded by his dreams of glory. Whatever the reason, his current course is folly--he will get us all killed.

Kralok attempted one more appeal to reason, "Commander, surely you can see this is a trap she has laid for you?"

"Kralok, you are letting your fear get the better of you. It is unseemly. You must control it. We have an overwhelming advantage in guns and torpedoes over Chosin, even with Galloway at her side. They will NOT escape. Not from me. I will not allow it!"

In that moment, Kralok realized they were going to die, and something inside him snapped. "Rabus, you fool," he snarled, "she doesn't want to escape; she wants to kill us!"

Rabus could barely contain his rage at Kralok's insubordination, and his hand clutched at the butt of his disruptor pistol. For a long moment he stared at Kralok, who had gone rigid with emotion. He had to decide whether to shoot him on the spot--his right as Captain--or have him removed to the brig for a slower, more methodical death.

His deliberation was interrupted by Centurion T'Nala, "Commander, Galloway has changed course!"

He shifted his gaze from Kralok to the tactical display. While he had been arguing with Kralok, Galloway and Chosin had rendezvoused. Instead of Chosin turning and trying to escape with Galloway, Galloway had reversed course, and the two ships were now in formation on a heading back toward the Romulans.

A cold fear pierced his rage. Kralok was right--She was coming to kill them.

#####

Chosin, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159

Moose stood in the launch bay between the two six-packs and marveled at her good luck.

Then again, maybe luck had nothing to do with it. The job of six-pack pusher required someone with the strength and stamina to muscle the heavy six-packs into position, and she certainly had that. It made perfect sense that she would be one of the people Chief Verley tagged to be on the six-pack teams. But no matter the reason, the job had been given to her, and it had taken a supreme effort of will for her to refrain from grabbing Verley in a bear hug and giving him a huge, sloppy kiss when he told her. It was surely a step up from her old GQ station in the ship's store room, where she had run parts and supplies to whoever needed them. Usually Engineering or one of the Damage Control teams. Now, she was part of the action, not sitting down in the bowels of the ship twiddling her thumbs.

Verley's voice crackled in her helmet speakers, "Opening launch bay doors. Check your safety lines, then check your buddy's."

She followed her line from the D-ring on her harness to the anchor point on the launch bay deck, giving it an experimental tug. Then she looked across at Crewman Delgado, the starboard pusher, and visually verified that his line was also secure. They exchanged thumbs-up signals, then turned to watch as the launch doors slid open.

Once again, she marveled at her luck. How many people could say they'd stood in a pressure suit, at the edge of the launch bay with the doors wide open, on a ship traveling at high warp? Not many, she'd wager.

#####

Temmorax, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159

Rabus shook off the surge of fear that had gripped him when he saw Chosin was not retreating. She should have run while she had the chance, he thought. It is too late for her now; I WILL destroy her.

But first he had a piece of unfinished business to take care of. "Get that piece of crallit dung off my bridge!" Rabus snarled, pointing at his ashen-faced second-in-command. Former second-in-command. There was no place in the service of the Praetor for cowards. A security officer grabbed Kralok and led him roughly from the bridge.

Rabus turned back to his bridge team. After Kralok's shameful display, they were all on edge. They needed to see him calm. They needed to see he was in control.

The first issue was the twelve torpedoes that were threatening his rear. It was too late to destroy them, as Kralok had desired, but he could make his ships less vulnerable by dispersing his formation. By dispersing, he could also envelope the two Starfleet vessels and more easily overwhelm them.

He gave the necessary orders.

#####

Chosin, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159

"Khart-lan, the Romulans are breaking formation." Lieutenant Koussa said.

"Thank you, Lieutenant." T'Pol opened the ship-to-ship channel, "Galloway, this is Chosin."

"Galloway, aye."

"Galloway, the Romulans are dispersing. I believe they will make an attempt to envelop us. On my command, be prepared to drop from warp and break formation. Maneuver to keep their ships between us. You are free to engage with all weapons at that time. Chosin will target romeo-leader and romeo-two, Galloway, you have romeo-three. Transfer control of your remote torpedoes to my bridge, I will use them to take out romeo-leader."

"Roger, Chosin. Waiting for your command."

"Chosin out."

T'Pol next addressed her weapons stations, "Ensign Bowman, as soon as we have dropped from warp, engage romeo-two with phase-cannons."

"Aye, Captain."

"Lieutenant Graham, you will engage romeo-leader with torpedoes set to maximum yield, all tubes and one six-pack."

"Aye, Khart-lan."

Then she sent an update through the bond, *Trip, be prepared. I am about to drop from warp.*

That was the best news Trip could have received. The Warp core was running hotter than he had ever seen it, and keeping the containment field stable was requiring the undivided attention of two engineers, one manually tweaking coil current, and one managing plasma flow rates. Complicating matters was the fact that they had to coordinate their efforts, since a change in one impacted the other. Normally, control of these parameters was automated, but they were operating well outside the design limits of the computerized control systems.

"Look alive, people," Trip broadcast over his Engineering channel, "we're about to drop from warp. I guess they got tired of abusing our warp drive, now they want to abuse the impulse drives." *Thanks for the heads-up, darling,* he sent back to T'Pol.

*You are welcome, my love. Later, we will speak of this notion that I am abusing your engines.* Her focus shifted back to the bridge, and her presence faded to a comforting warmth in the back of his mind.

Sweat ran in rivers down his body, but he ignored the discomfort. Several of the impulse drive's systems were in less than marginal condition--the starboard propellant pump came to mind--and he wanted engineers monitoring them. He mentally ran through his personnel roster, already deciding who he was going to assign to which system.

Back on the bridge, T'Pol gave the order to drop from warp. Chosin and Galloway separated, proceeding on divergent courses. Galloway maneuvered to engage romeo three, while Chosin moved to intercept romeo leader.

"Firing phase-cannons," Ensign Bowman said, making no attempt to conceal his eagerness. "Targeting romeo-two."

"Tubes one through six away, Khart-lan. Forty seconds to intercept." Graham announced. He continued, moments later, "Six-pack deployed... torpedoes away... Thirty-eight seconds to intercept. All twelve torpedoes running hot and true."

While Graham was firing his torpedoes, T'Pol sent the commands that activated the twelve torpedoes drifting behind the Romulans, directing them at romeo-leader. They acquired their assigned target and went to warp, homing unerringly on the Romulan foxtrot.

#####

Temmorax, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159

"Chosin is firing torpedoes, Commander. Multiple launches. Sensors detect twelve torpedoes inbound, impact in forty seconds."

"How many?"

"Twelve."

Rabus frowned. Twelve? Impossible. Starfleet frigates only have six torpedo launchers. There is no way they can simultaneously fire twelve torpedoes... is there? "Weapons, shift fire from Chosin to the torpedoes. Prepare to interdict with our torpedoes, all tubes, launch on my command."

"Yes, Commander.

"Commander, the twelve torpedoes behind us have entered warp! They are inbound, impact in thirty seconds!" There was a hard edge of panic in the sensor operator's voice.

Rabus' blood ran cold, and he quickly amended his orders to the gun batteries, "port disruptors, target the new torpedoes, starboard, continue fire at the old."

"Yes, Commander!"

"Launch torpedoes now. All tubes," Rabus said.

The weapons officer looked up in confusion, "At what, Commander?"

"At the inbound torpedoes, you idiot!" Rabus yelled. "Tubes one through four at the old, five through eight at the new! Continue firing until inbounds are destroyed!"

He watched the tracks of the twenty-four inbound torpedoes on the tactical display as they intersected the outbound tracks of his own torpedoes. Where they met, a wave of brilliant flashes erupted.

Early in the war, it would have been enough. The overlapping spheres of fiery annihilation would have easily destroyed most, if not all, of the inbound torpedoes. Disruptor fire and active jamming would have neutralized the rest.

But this was not early in the war. The Coalition devils continually refined their ordnance and modified their tactics. They knew the exact yield of Romulan torpedoes. They knew the sensitivity of Romulan sensors. They incorporated that knowledge into their torpedo guidance systems. Coalition torpedoes were equipped with countermeasures to confuse the active homing systems on Romulan torpedoes. Their guidance systems were programmed to follow erratic and rapidly changing courses that made them difficult to hit with disruptor fire. And those erratic courses also caused them to disperse, making it difficult for a single high-yield warhead to destroy multiple inbound torpedoes.

When the fireballs faded, five torpedoes were still inbound. It was in that moment Rabus knew with certainty he was going to die.

"Five seconds to impact," the sensor operator said. The panic in his voice was gone, as if he were resigned to his fate, and Rabus felt a surge of pride at his crew. We die as Romulans.

"One second."

I never fired a single shot at her, Rabus thought. Perhaps she really IS a sorceress. It was his last thought before the torpedoes struck.

#####

Chosin, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159

Delgado stepped back from the six-pack, giving Moose a thumbs-up sign. She fastened the tether to the detonating pin, and stepped back herself. "Tether set," she said, over the suit comm, "pushers are clear."

"Clear to fire," Verley relayed to the bridge.

"Firing." On a command from the bridge, a solenoid on the six-pack opened, and a plume of compressed air shot the pallet of torpedoes out the launch doors and into space.

Moose pulled the four-meter tether back in, unclipped the detonating pin from its end, and coiled the tether on the deck. Then she ran back and stood beside the next six-pack in line. Delgado had taken up position on the other side.

"Move it up, Pushers," Verley directed.

Moose leaned her body into it, and the six-pack rolled forward.

"Set," Verley said, when they were in position.

Moose set the brake on her side, and got the thumbs up from Delgado that he had done the same.

"Brakes set," she commed.

The shipped lurched violently sideways, and she was thrown off her feet. The part of the starboard engine nacelle visible to her through the launch doors momentarily brightened, as if a giant camera flash had gone off.

A disruptor hit, she realized, as she regained her feet. Shields must be down. That ordinarily would have worried her, but right now she was too busy to be worried. I LOVE my new battle station.

Somewhere, an overloaded circuit-breaker tripped, and the launch bay lights flickered, then went out. Battery-powered emergency lighting came on immediately, but the brightly-lit launch bay was now a gloomy cavern. Moose reached for the end of the tether, not finding it where she'd left it. Must have shifted when the deck lurched. She cast around, looking for it.

"Inbound torpedoes," came a voice through her headset, "we need those six-packs." The voice wasn't Verley's. Moose supposed it was someone on the bridge. Where the hell is the end of that tether?

"Data cable set," Delgado commed, indicating he had connected the wires that allowed targeting data to be uploaded to the torpedoes.

Moose finally found the end of the tether where it had slid around behind her. She grabbed it and hastily clipped it to the detonating pin. "Tether set," she said, stepping back.

There was Delgado's thumbs-up. "Pushers are clear," she called. Neither one of them noticed the loop of tether laying on the deck behind Moose.

"Clear to fire."

"Firing."

The six-pack shot into space, and the loop in the tether tightened like a noose around Moose's ankles. She was jerked off her feet and thrown from the launch bay, her helmet slamming into the edge of the door as she hurtled past.

When the six-pack reached the end of the tether, the explosive bolts detonated. The cargo straps--suddenly released from their tension-- snapped back like whips. The jagged tip of one strap caught her safety line and sliced it in two.

Delgado watched in horror as Moose's unconscious body dwindled into the interstellar night.

#####

"Helm, your orders are to maintain a distance of ten light-seconds from romeo-four. Do not allow them to get any closer than that." T'Pol directed.

"Aye, Khart-lan," Trinh responded. I hope they're ready down in engineering, because the impulse drives are about to get a serious workout.

Romeo-four was the last surviving Romulan foxtrot, and the one Trinh most wanted to see destroyed: Romeo-four was the ship that had murdered the crew of Ketalan.

The cowardly bastards had very nearly escaped. They changed course and went to warp after the destruction of their comrades. Galloway was at a dead stop, warp and impulse engines both damaged by disruptor fire, but Chosin had taken off after the retreating Romulan vessel.

Only another astounding performance by Chosin's Engineering Department had allowed them to overtake the fleeing ship. They had actually managed a short burst at warp 6.9, which had been enough to bring the warbird within range of Chosin's weapons. Both ships had dropped from warp, and a slug-fest ensued.

The desperate warbird had fired every torpedo in her magazines as fast as her auto-loaders could slam them into the tubes. For three minutes, a steady stream of destruction rained down on Chosin, but her defenses held.

Chosin's own torpedo magazines were emptied defending against the onslaught, as well as the last of her six-packs. But unlike the foxtrot, Chosin carried spare torpedoes in her cargo hold. Below decks, the torpedo techs were urgently at the back-breaking task of manually hauling torpedoes through Chosin's narrow passageways and reloading her depleted magazines.

While her launchers were being reloaded, the battle between the two ships devolved into a vicious gun fight.

On paper, it was an even match. Eight disruptors against seven phase-cannons. The Romulan disruptors had roughly twice the destructive power of Starfleet's phase-cannons, but the phase-cannons had greater accuracy and a higher rate of fire.

The Romulan Commander knew what he had to do to survive: Get in close and finish the fight quickly by overwhelming Chosin with his powerful disruptors. Unfortunately for him, Chosin was faster and more nimble. And she has the best damn helmsman in the quadrant, Trinh thought, somewhat immodestly.

"Weapons, target romeo-four with phase-cannons. Continue firing until the target is destroyed. It would be best to finish her as quickly as possible."

"Aye, ma'am."

Trinh grimaced at the Captain's last command. He knew very well--as did everyone on the bridge--why it was necessary to finish the Romulans quickly. Moose was out there somewhere, and she had less than an hour of air.

Unfortunately, Chosin's tactic of long range engagement was not quick. As the minutes ticked away, and as Chosin (under Trinh's delicate touch) danced away from the foxtrot's lumbering advances, the damage they were able to inflict was light. Too light. It was clearly going to take more than an hour to finish the Romulan foxtrot.

The torpedo techs gave the Captain an alternative. Somehow, through a herculean effort Trinh could barely imagine, they had managed in thirty minutes to reload all four of the forward torpedo tubes with one mark 2 torpedo each.

As soon as the techs declared the ordnance ready, T'Pol fired all four at the warbird.

At the same time, she had Trinh bring Chosin in close, giving the Romulan Commander a choice: He could target the torpedoes with his disruptors, and let Chosin get to close range, or he could continue to engage Chosin, and let the four torpedoes to do their work.

He shifted fire to the torpedoes, gambling that he would have time to finish Chosin after the torpedoes were destroyed.

His gamble failed. The torpedoes did not survive the barrage of defensive fire from the warbird, but while the warbird engaged the torpedoes, Chosin's phase-cannon fire became more accurate. Devastatingly accurate.

The warbird's shields quickly failed under the blistering storm of pulsed energy. After that, the end came quickly. Every shot hit its target, blasting huge holes in the foxtrot's hull. Great plumes of gas vented into space through breaches in her hull. Plasma trailed from the scorched warp nacelles. Trinh smiled at the desperate twists and turns by which the Romulans attempted to evade destruction. He matched them turn-for-turn.

Until the impulse drives lost power.

Suddenly, Chosin was coasting, and the foxtrot was escaping.

Lieutenant Hoefler reported immediately from the engineering board, "Captain, Impulse drives are--"

T'Pol cut him off, "I know. Helm, use the warp drives to position us at a point four light-seconds in front of the foxtrot along her current heading."

Trinh's mouth dropped open. It had never been done. The timing was too tricky, the warp control settings too imprecise. The Nav Comp didn't even have a module to compute warp settings from three-space vectors; he'd have to fly it by the seat of his pants. It couldn't be done.

"Now, please." T'Pol said calmly.

Trinh gulped, "Aye, Khart-lan." Working quickly, he estimated the settings, uploaded the coordinates and engaged the warp drive.

They dropped out of warp almost instantly, and the collision alarm went off. A little too close, Trinh realized, but not dangerously so. He engaged maneuvering thrusters and began accelerating away from the approaching warbird.

"Well done, helm," T'Pol said. "Weapons, engage."

The phase cannons were firing before she finished speaking, and the damaged warbird began breaking apart. Secondary explosions finished her, leaving a wrecked hulk in a field of twisted debris.

Everyone knew what would happen next.

A blinding flash erupted from the wreckage as the self-destruct mechanism activated. When the fireball faded, there was nothing left of the Romulan warbird but dust and vapor.

"Khart-lan, we need to get Moose," Trinh said, turning around to look at her, "there's not much time left."

Captain T'Pol avoided his look, staring at the view screen with unseeing eyes. He had never seen her look so... defeated. "The impulse engines are not functioning," she said, "and warp core temperatures are above critical. We cannot go after her without endangering the whole ship. I... I am sorry."

Trinh slumped back in his chair. Moose...

He jerked upright, "We can send the shuttlepod!"

T'Pol looked thoughtful. "I must remind you the shuttlepod is tipped on its side at the back of the launch bay to make room for the six-packs. It will take some time to get it righted."

Trinh felt the excitement of hope, "No, that's not necessary. I'll fly it out!"

T'Pol arched one eyebrow as she regarded him. "You propose flying the shuttlepod out of the launch bay while it is turned sideways and laying on its side?"

"Yes ma'am. I can do it. You know I can."

T'Pol nodded, slowly. "Very well. I will have Chief Boryez and one of her Corpsmen meet you in the launch bay. They will accompany you. I suggest you hurry."

"Aye, Khart-lan," Trinh said, and he rushed from the bridge.

#####

Interstellar space, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159

Moose slowly regained consciousness.

I'm falling! was her first thought. It's dark, was her second thought. Oh, shit, was her third thought. They were all more or less correct.

Several deep breaths later, she had a firm grip on her fear, and had taken stock of her situation. It was clear she was alone and drifting in interstellar space--she could see nothing but stars in every direction. Her comm was out. Completely dead. No transmit or receive capability, which meant the distress transponder was probably also kaput. The same blow that knocked her out must have crushed the comm unit, but her suit was still air-tight, which was good news.

According to her helmet gauges, she had an hour of air left, and four hours of power. Based on that, she estimated she had been unconscious for less than two minutes. Still, in two minutes at half-impulse, Chosin could be millions of kilometers away. What's the record for aloneness? she wondered. I may have just set it. She giggled at the thought.

A sequence of bright flashes off to her right blossomed into fireballs, then faded back into darkness. Torpedoes.

She stared off in that direction, and saw, or thought she saw, occasional sparks and flashes that might have been phase-cannon or disruptor hits.

Her head hurt.

Another set of torpedo detonations bloomed and faded.

She tried to remember the tactical situation before she was unceremoniously set adrift. Two of the four foxtrots had been destroyed, she remembered, but Galloway was out of six-packs, and Chosin was down to three. The fourth Romulan foxtrot--the bastard that had shot up the escape pods-- still had a full load of torpedoes.

She refused to consider the possibility that Chosin would not be victorious.

They will be back for me. Within the hour. I won't even miss movie night with Dat. The thought of Dat brought another smile to her face. He was always so cocky. So arrogant. So proud of his reputation as a bad-ass. A trouble-maker. He had most people fooled, but not her. Underneath that bad-ass facade was a... was a... well, maybe not a sensitive soul, exactly, but certainly someone more caring and considerate than he let on. He just needed the right incentive to let it out. He just needed a good, swift kick from a Moose.

Damn. Her head wasn't getting any better. And she had no aspirin. And no way to take it even if she had it. If wishes were horses... there'd be a dead horse floating nearby. She giggled again.

She closed her eyes. It didn't help.

I wonder if I have a concussion?

She spent a couple of minutes trying to see the reflections of her pupils in her helmet visor, without any luck. If they were dilated, she couldn't tell. Hell, it was so dark, they'd be dilated even if she DIDN'T have a concussion. Sometimes I'm such an idiot.

She drifted in the interstellar void, while her air gauge drifted toward zero. She realized there was no possibility of rescue as long as Chosin and Galloway were engaged with the enemy. Just how long does it take to kick the butts of two Romulan foxtrots?

Hopefully less than an hour.

When her air gauge reached the ten minute mark, she decided she was officially entitled to get a little worried.

At seven minutes, she started entertaining the notion that she might not be rescued.

When the gauge hit five minutes, she had to accept she just might die.

At three minutes, she knew she would die.

At two minutes, she saw the most beautiful sight she had ever seen in her life: Chosin's shuttlepod was approaching. The side door was open, and a suited figure stood in the opening with a lifeline coiled in one hand. She wasn't going to die, after all. Not today, anyway. I wonder what the movie is tonight?

#####

Chosin, Teneebian sector, 25 Feb 2159

The first thing T'Pol noticed as she approached engineering was the smell; a pungent mixture of burning insulation, scorched electronics, hot machine oil, and human sweat. The second thing she noticed was the heat. It was unpleasantly hot, even to her Vulcan sensibilities. It must be unbearable for the humans.

As she entered engineering, the warp core appeared to shimmer as waves of heat emanated from it. The engineering crew gave it wide berth as they wearily went about their repair tasks. Her eyes sought out her mate, and found him peering into a smoking control cabinet. He stood when he sensed her presence and made his unsteady way toward her.

T'Pol was not pleased at her mate's condition. He was sweaty, streaked with oil and grime, and exhausted, bordering on collapse. She firmly suppressed her Vulcan concern for her mate's well-being. Their duty to the ship came first.

"Hey, darling," he said. He gave her eyes a searching look, while he gently probed her mental state. He found her to be in complete control, and some of the tension drained from his body. "We didn't lose anyone," he said. It was a statement, not a question.

"There were six injuries, two severe. Crewman McGuire lost an arm, but Chief Boryez says it can be reattached when we return to Starbase 7. Trinh recovered Moose in the shuttlepod. We lost no one today."

T'Pol paused when she saw Trip smirking. "What?"

"You called her Moose."

"It is how she desires to be addressed," T'Pol said, primly.

"Uh-huh."

T'Pol decided it was easier to change the subject than attempt an explanation, "What is your status?" she asked.

Trip rubbed his eye with the palm of one hand and grimaced. "We'll have impulse drives in a couple of hours. The main propellant line ruptured, but we can patch it up, no problem. Warp drive is down 'till sometime tomorrow. That last burst of speed cracked the dilithium matrix. It's a total loss; We'll replace it after the warp core cools down enough. We also have some shorted warp coils. Everything else is small potatoes."

Small potatoes. T'Pol filed the reference away for future study. "Trip, I understand you have canceled the movie tonight."

Trip snorted, "Well, yeah." As justification, he waved an arm at the barely controlled chaos around him.

"I wish you to reconsider."

"You gotta be shi--" Trip stopped abruptly as T'Pol nudged him through the bond. I gotta work on the cussing, Trip thought. T'Pol doesn't like it. "You gotta be kidding me," he amended.

"Vulcans do not--" Trip nudged T'Pol through the bond and grinned. She arched one eyebrow, but revised her statement, "I am not kidding.

"Okay. Why?"

"It will not hurt if the repairs take an extra two or three hours, and I believe it would be beneficial for the crew."

Trip sensed there was more. "And?" he prompted.

"And... I overheard Moo-- Crewman Froehner-- talking to Chief Boryez in sickbay after her rescue. It seems Petty Officer Trinh is taking her on a 'date' to the movie. She is apparently looking forward to it."

"I'll be damned," Trip said in a wondering tone. "You're turning into a great big softy, you know that?"

"I am merely looking after the welfare of my crew, as a Captain should."

"I'll bet if you were Captain of a Vulcan ship, you wouldn't have to worry about things like movie nights or relieving stress," he teased.

"The job would certainly be less... complex," T'Pol agreed. "On the other hand..."

Trip gave T'Pol an inquiring look when her voice trailed off into silence.

"On the other hand, " she continued softly, "no Vulcan ship could have done what Chosin did today."

Trip glanced over at his exhausted engineers as they bent, uncomplaining, to their tasks, and his heart swelled with pride. "Indeed."

#####

Chosin, Lalande III, 8 Mar 2159

Trip was already waiting at the docking port when T'Pol made her way down from the bridge. It had been less than an hour since Chosin and Galloway arrived without fanfare at Lalande III. T'Pol was on the bridge coordinating a repair schedule with Starbase 7 when she received the notice.

Admiral Gardner was on a passenger shuttle, on his way to Chosin from the Starbase.

Admiral Gardner, the Starfleet Commandant. He should have been on Earth, coordinating the war effort, not out on the front lines.

"You sure he didn't mention what this was about?" Trip asked, for the second time.

"I am sure, Trip."

They waited as the locks engaged and the indicator lights turned green, then opened the docking port.

Gardner stepped through, and his normally dour expression seemed positively gloomy.

Trip felt a chill of premonition. Something's happened to Enterprise.

"Admiral." T'Pol greeted, stepping forward.

"Captain T'Pol, Commander Tucker," Gardner replied, with a nod.

"What can we do for you, sir?" Trip asked, uneasily.

Gardner dropped his eyes to a PADD in his hands, "Captain T'Pol, United Earth has received a request from the Andorian government for your extradition."

Trip exploded. "WHAT?"

T'Pol put a calming hand on his arm. "For what purpose?" she asked Gardner.

"You are being charged with crimes related to the loss of the freighter Ketalan and the murder of her crew. The Chancellor himself signed the extradition papers. He is threatening to withdraw all Andorian military support from the Coalition war effort if you are not handed over for trial."

Trip maintained a stunned silence, but T'Pol could tell he was seething inside. She sent calming thoughts across the bond. "Can he do that?" she asked, "Will he do that?"

"As Commander-in-Chief of Andorian forces, he has the authority. As to whether he really would..?" Gardner shrugged.

"I'm sorry Commander," Gardner continued. "Starfleet will fight this tooth and nail. I have no intention of handing one of our own over to that bastard. I've got our best legal minds working on it, as well as the full resources of our embassy on Andoria. We've even asked Vulcan for help, since you are a Vulcan citizen."

"How much time do we have?" T'Pol asked.

"Three days."

They all knew it wouldn't be enough.

END

Note: This is the last chapter of 'Command', but it does not complete the story. The story continues in Chapter 1 of 'Convicted'