Chapter Text
Commander Shran did not look well.
Any Human looking at him now would most likely express surprise at how well he appeared to be coping. T'Pol, however, was not Human. She was Vulcan, and as such, had spent a lifetime surrounded by deliberately neutral facial expressions not unlike the one that the Commander was currently wearing. (He would, no doubt, be offended by the comparison, and so she left the thought unspoken.) As he waved her into his borrowed quarters, she took note of the slight pinching at the corners of his lips, the tension in his shoulders, the way his antennae were held low, never raising to their full height. All of it spoke of intense emotion, carefully restrained – of grief, of regret, of anger and of fear.
“I suppose you're here to try and convince me to call off the duel,” he said.
“If I were,” said T'Pol, “is there any chance I would succeed?”
Shran's ushaan-tor was lying near where he sat on the bed. He picked it up and stared at his reflection in the blade – avoiding her eyes. “No,” he said.
“I suspected as much,” said T'Pol. She gestured toward the chair opposite the bed. “May I sit?”
“What do you want, Commander?”
T'Pol sat. “The situation we've found ourselves in is ... untenable,” she said. “I hoped that you might assist me in coming up with a solution.”
“Simple. Convince Archer not to take Naarg's place,” said Shran.
“I have already attempted to persuade him not to fight,” she said. “He will not be swayed.”
“He's going to die,” said Shran.
“He is aware of how poor his chances of victory are,” said T'Pol. “If anything, he considers that to be all the more reason to go through with it.”
Shran looked up, his eyes narrowed and his antennae lifting slightly. “What?” he said.
“As things currently stand,” said T'Pol, “the Tellarites are refusing to have any part of your challenge. If the Captain does not fight, no one will. You know very well how your people would receive that.”
“It would be a grave insult,” said Shran.
“Do you believe,” said T'Pol, “that you would be able to persuade the Imperial Guard to remain a part of our proposed alliance, under that circumstance?”
“No,” said Shran.
T'Pol nodded. She had not expected him to say otherwise.
Shran, for his part, appeared to take her silence as judgment. His antennae flattened themselves against the top of his head, and his voice took on a distinctly defensive tone. “There are customs and traditions that must be respected,” he said. “I wouldn't expect you to understand.”
“On the contrary,” said T'Pol. “Vulcans understand very well the logic inherent to the observance of tradition and ritual.”
“Are you telling me that you think I'm doing the right thing?”
“No,” said T'Pol. “I'm telling you that I understand why you're doing it. The two are not the same.”
“And here I thought that you were here to tell me all of the reasons why going ahead with the Ushaan would be illogical,” said Shran. “That by seeking vengeance on the Tellarite pig who pulled the trigger and killed Talas, I'm giving the people who are ultimately responsible for her death, and for the loss of my ship and crew, exactly what they want.”
T'Pol said nothing.
“Or maybe you're here to tell me that this whole situation is my fault. That if I'd only listened to Talas when she advised caution in dealing with the Tellarites, if I'd only listened to Archer when he told me that the ship that attacked us wasn't what it appeared to be, if I'd only listened instead of assuming I knew better than the people I–”
He broke eye contact, looked back down at the weapon in his hand.
“There is no reason for me to tell you any of those things,” said T'Pol. “You are clearly already well aware of them.”
“So tell me, Commander,” said Shran. “Why is Archer so determined to die by my hand?”
“If Ambassador Gral or any of his people fight you, and lose, the Tellarites will take offense, and withdraw from the alliance,” she said. “The network will fail, and the people who are actively destabilizing this region of space will remain unidentified and unpunished, free to continue sowing discord and taking innocent lives.”
Shran remained silent.
“If, by some fluke, one of the Tellarites, or indeed Captain Archer, were to win the ritual combat, and kill you...”
“...the Imperial Guard would likely withdraw from the alliance,” Shran finished. “Especially without my voice advocating for it.”
“The result would be the same,” said T'Pol. “Preventable deaths, and needless strife. A victory delivered neatly into the hands of our shared enemies.” She paused. “If, however, the Captain were to be killed in the fight, Starfleet would not withdraw. If anything, I suspect they would be more inclined to hold to the agreements, in his honour.”
“So Archer believes that he has to sacrifice his life to preserve the alliance,” said Shran.
“It is a sacrifice he is willing to make,” said T'Pol. “And as much as it pains me to admit it, I cannot fault his logic.”
“That's not a very Vulcan sentiment,” said Shran.
“It isn't about sentiment,” said T'Pol, the words coming out more sharply than she had meant them to. Her mastery of her emotions had improved somewhat since the unfortunate choices she had made in the Expanse, but there was no denying that by the standards of her own people, she was still ... volatile. She took a moment, concentrated on her breathing. “It's no secret that I hold Captain Archer in high regard. I believe he has earned it.”
“You'll get no argument from me on that subject,” said Shran.
“The potential consequences if he should die before his time are significant,” she said. “There are elements in play of which you are not aware.”
“I could say the same to you,” said Shran. He shut his eyes for a moment, clasped his left arm with his right hand. “Whatever the outcome of the fight, I'm damned. Archer has seen to that. And he doesn't even know...” he looked up, his jaw tense, his eyes clear. “I don't want him to die,” he said. “I certainly don't want to be the one to kill him.”
“Then help me,” said T'Pol. “Help him. There must be a loophole. A way to prevent any more death while still maintaining your honour and Talas's.”
“If there were,” said Shran, “I wouldn't be able to tell you. As the challenger, I'm not permitted to render any aid, to show any mercy.”
T'Pol maintained an impassive expression even as she recognized the emotion that was flitting dangerously close to the edges of her control – desperation. “There must be a way–”
“I suggest,” said Shran, cutting her off, “that you and your people review the rules of the Ushaan before Archer has to face me. You clearly haven't understood them.”
“Commander–”
“Perhaps you could ask Ensign Sato to assist you,” said Shran. “She seems to have a knack for understanding ... nuance.” He stood then, his ushaan-tor still gripped in his left hand. “Goodnight, Commander,” he said.
T'Pol peered at the Andorian commander for a long moment before rising smoothly to her feet. “I understand,” she said.
“Do you,” said Shran.
“I will not disturb you any further,” she said. She turned and headed for the door. She paused, her hand lingering on the control panel. “I am sorry for your loss,” she said. “For all of your losses.” She hit the button, and the door slid open. “Goodnight, Commander Shran.”
The door slid shut behind her. She nodded an acknowledgement to the guard posted in the corridor before striding away, as quickly as she could without betraying the unseemly sense of urgency that she felt.
Shran, she was sure, had chosen his words deliberately. Even if he couldn't tell her what it was, there was something in the code of the Ushaan that could solve this.
If they wanted to save the Captain's life, they only had a few hours left to find it.