Chapter Text
Archer's pulse was beating out a drum solo in his ears, the centering lent by the presence Surak's katra disrupted as he listened to Tucker's hasty accounting of all that had happened while he and T'Pol had been on the surface. His temper flared at the edges, greying his vision, but he stood silently, sometimes glancing at Shran. The Andorian lingered nearby with his antennas folded so far back they were nearly plastered to his skull as he shifted silently from foot to foot, anxious, chided.
"I tried to stop them, pink skin..." He whispered in-between Tucker's debriefing.
Shran had lost control of his impromptu interrogation of Soval, his commanding officer had ordered that the ex-Ambassador remained for further questioning. Shran offered little explanation of how he had proceeded, only the why. Andorian paranoia, mostly, though the main point stood... The Imperial Guard could hardly deploy against an attack they had no previous knowledge of without solid proof. Soval's word, especially as a Vulcan, was not good enough. When it had been determined that something had to be done, the ETA of the Vulcan ships had not allowed Tucker and the Enterprise to address both Soval's kidnapping and the threat of armed conflict between Andor and Vulcan immediately.
Do not hand me over to some Vulcan priest, allow me to assist you in this, please! Surak requested, a strange anxiety coiling itself tightly around Archer's mind. How Surak had become familiar with Soval, he couldn't begin to guess, though he wasn't entirely surprised.
"Why are we still standing here?" Archer demanded, "Warp five! Shran, you're coming with us!"
The antennas shot up.
It didn't take long to reach Andor, and short of the usual reports a heavy silence hung on the Bridge and its battered and exhausted crew.
Shran stepped forward slowly, hands clasped behind his back, antennas down, eyes focused on Archer's feet.
"I must warn you, Captain... Lesser Vulcans have been driven insane by Andorian techniques... Some have taken... Drastic measures."
An untempered rage erupted in the center of Archer's skull and he gasped, dropping his head in his hands, panting, fear scratching at the walls of his heart.
"Captain, are you all right?" T'Pol asked sharply, half rising from her seat.
"I'm fine..." Archer grunted, "Shran... You better hope Soval is in one piece... Or I'm going to be really pissed off..."
Apparently, Archer added to himself. It was true he would have been angry in either case, whether he had Surak's katra or not he was angry enough on his own, but the Father of Logic felt to be beside himself, barely restrained.
"Sir, we're being hailed, it's the Andorians, audio only," Hoshi reported.
Archer inclined his head, waiting, not daring himself to speak.
"Your Vulcan," sneered a female voice. Archer thought they sounded female anyway. Gender was exceedingly hard to guess with Andorians. It was better to ask.
The signal dropped.
"Sir, I'm reading activity on the transporter pad," T'Pol said, standing up quickly, worry flooding her face.
Archer followed, pausing only for a second to scowl at Shran.
"You're damn lucky that signal is alive. Someone page Phlox, have him meet us there."
If he has been harmed... Surak warned, his voice filling Archer's inner ears with ice.
Do you know something you want to share with the rest of the class? Archer replied, his insides knotting as he jogged down the hallway after T'Pol.
Your friend is... Very important to me.
Way to part the information, Surak, very helpful.
He stopped in the doorway, almost crashing head first into T'Pol. The Science Officer was rooted to the spot, her eyes round and her face drawn, hands trembling at her sides. Taking a slow breath, Archer followed her gaze, noting the heavy scent of copper in the air that hung on the back of his tongue.
The missing Vulcan was curled in a ball on the transporter pad, his dark clothes soaking up a generous amount of emerald green blood. His eyes were flickering beneath their bruised lids, green and turquoise splotched livid against the hollow bronze complexion and sweat slicked grey hair. A few of the cuts on his face from the embassy explosion had reopened, trickling down his temple and ear while his hands were held feebly against his body, the right one wrapped in a sopping bloody cloth.
Archer's vision flashed red at Surak's outrage and panic and he slipped past T'Pol, noting Soval's shallow, ragged breath. Without hesitation he scooped the Vulcan into his arms bridal style, his rapid heartbeat flickering against the Captain's chest like a frightened humming bird trying to free itself from a cage. The fact he weighed little did nothing to ease Archer as he made his way for the door, still trying to tune out Surak as went.
I thought T'Pol said Vulcans don't sweat... Though I've seen her do it...
They don't, Surak responded stiffly, Subspecies of Vulcans, however, do. Ones that are adapted to colder regions. Other planets.
"Captain!"
Subspecies?
Archer did not stop for Phlox as the Denobulan slid to a halt in front of him, going pale at the sight of the Vulcan cradled against the shaking human.
"Doctor, we may require the assistance of Vulcan healers," T'Pol began urgently.
"No!" Archer roared, Surak seizing control of his vocal chords, "No... Not if you want him to live..."
A faint frown creased Phlox's brows but he said nothing, instead taking the lead to sickbay.
Because he's a mind melder? Archer asked, setting Soval down on a cot.
Run your fingers over his forehead, Jonathan, tell me what it is you feel.
Curiously, Archer did as he was asked, earning himself raised eyebrows from both Phlox and T'Pol. The Vulcan's skin was wet with sweat and blood, grimy with debris of wherever he had been held, but underneath his fingers, underneath that skin, he could feel a set of graceful ridges, barely risen from the surface of his skull.
Fascinating. So Vulcans have forehead plating, Archer said, dropping his hand quickly and feeling the heat of his blush, his mouth turning to sandpaper.
Vulcans do not have forehead plating.
Let me guess, only subspecies have forehead plating. What does this have to do with anything? Surely Soval's medical records are on file, he's been scanned, immunized, transported, tended to... I don't think he's in any danger from receiving treatment. He hasn't raised suspicion yet...
Doubt tugged at something deep.
Jonathan, I'm telling you, if they find him, they will execute him. You must not allow that.
Do you want to tell me what's going on before I find someone to hit the damn safety eject on your happy ass?
The story is his to tell. I cannot, I will not, violate his safety any further.
Providing he lives, maybe he'll tell me then. Knowing Soval, I kinda doubt it.
He must survive, Captain! It's imperative!
Archer took another deep breath, this time to try and shake off the argument, pinching the bridge of his nose.
T'Pol's small noise drew his focus to Phlox, who had just removed the cloth from Soval's hand.
He wished he hadn't looked up.
"Oh God..." He whispered, his stomach performing one of the more acrobatic back flips it had done in awhile, bile creeping up his throat. His own hands gripped the table to steady himself as he eyed the mangled mess. He could feel Surak's conscious seething against his, the back of his neck scalding as he swallowed.
The Andorians had taken the ring finger of Soval's right hand and broken a few of the others. For a human, the damage may have been nominal, but for a Vulcan...
"Phlox... Phlox, he needs a healer," T'Pol insisted, horrified, "Severe hand injuries can cause massive neurological trauma in Vulcans."
"No Vulcan Healers... He's a mind melder. What do you think they would do to him?" Archer tried, wondering if there was any other way to convince T'Pol. She still thought he was suffering from a mild meld hangover instead of walking around with an 1,800 year old ghost in his head. "Because Surak said so" could not be a valid point here.
"So is T'Pau and she's now in the capital!"
"It's been less than twenty four hours, T'Pol! We can't be sure who has what sentiments yet!"
"Enough! I can treat him if I simply have quiet!" Phlox scolded, eyeing them both, "Now either be quiet or get out until I've finished. I need to stop the bleeding before I can do anything else..."
"Perhaps we should wait outside..." T'Pol suggested tightly.
"That might be a good idea," Archer agreed, starting to feel nauseous and dizzy again, "Phlox, call me if there are any changes, good or bad."
"You got it."
Falling onto his bed a few minutes later Archer closed his eyes and was relieved when he didn't find himself in the deserts of Vulcan with Surak for company. It remained blissfully quiet, even as Porthos took the opportunity to curl up against him, more content to nap on his owner than on his own bed.
He remembered with acute clarity the day this had all started, coming to see the Klingon's body, arguing with Soval and Admiral Forrest, pulling Phlox into his crew. The Ambassador had cornered him before launch alone, calling on his quarters, his voice low and agitated as he tried to convince Archer once again that this was quite possibly the worst idea humanity had ever had. At some point, as he usually did, he began ignoring whatever Soval was growling about. He had taken a second to examine the Vulcan as he paced, the hems of his robes hissing around his feet, realizing it may be the last time he saw him. Like most Vulcans Archer knew, the man looked ageless, his copper face free of lines and youthful, the soft looking grey hair the same as he had always seen it. A small part of him wondered if it was his natural color. If it was as fluffy as it looked. He was too weary of confrontation to ask. The facial expression, so painstakingly controlled, was betrayed only by the warm brown eyes. They offered their owner no refuge, there was something not unlike panic in them, and for the first time a question proposed itself to Archer. He wondered if Soval wasn't afraid. For him. For humanity. For Vulcan. It was a strange thought.
His gaze flicked to the sharp ears and he smiled. If it wouldn't enrage Soval beyond all reason, Archer would have started calling him "Elf." He personally considered it more endearing than "Ambassador Pointy," if he was being honest. Soval had not been impressed with that one.
That had only been three years ago, and somehow that man seemed a completely different person from the one currently at Phlox's mercy. The one who had come to him in the funeral hall, full of anger and pain at the Admiral's death, the fire in his eyes calling for justice. For vengeance. It chilled Archer to the bone.
He sat up slowly, looking in the mirror. He was hardly the same person either, his face unshaven and littered with scars and cuts, thinner, his pale eyes no longer containing the innocence he had when they had left spacedock. His dark hair was greying quickly, much like the color of his mind. He had been so sure of himself, so certain he knew what was right from wrong. Now he felt as though he hardly knew anything. Soval had been right to be worried. Humanity had nearly gotten itself annihilated in their eagerness.
Everyone makes mistakes, Surak assured him, Vulcan was almost annihilated for the sake of enlightenment as well... I believe your friend has drawn the comparisons.
Archer reached out, scratching Porthos behind the ears gloomily, wishing he had word from Phlox. He was certain he would be unable to sleep until then.
"Phlox to Captain Archer, would you come down here, please?"
The stress in Phlox's voice sent another wave of nausea through the Captain and pulling himself up like the undead he headed for the lift, closing his eyes as he leaned against the wall. So many things had gone right today. He hoped quietly for just one more.
He entered sickbay with low expectations, his mind already offering eulogy ideas. The sight of the vitals strong and steady from the biobed made him stumble, putting a hand out against an empty one to steady himself.
"Phlox?" He asked, surprised to find his voice hoarse.
"Captain... I have some bad news and some interesting news, which would you prefer first?"
"Is he going to live?"
Trepidation filled his voice, the thought of losing both Forrest and Soval in just a few days was more than he wanted to bear.
"Oh, he'll live... I cannot guarantee what kind of a state he will be in when he wakes up... The neural damage, I have never seen anything like it... It spread up his hand all the way to his shoulder. I do not know what kind of damage the feedback may have done to his mental processes. His scans are incredible, look at this..."
Archer sighed with relief, living was a start. He could begin there. Anything else he would make certain Soval did not face alone.
He looked up at the view screen and slowly straightened up, confused. The scan was lit so intensely he fancied that if he placed his hand near Soval's head he would be able to feel the static.
"I would say for a Vulcan this is very dangerous, Captain... But this man would have to be Vulcan first."