Can a woman be able to pull out from Hellfire the man she loves? Although she is not yet even aware of loving him?
Can she be capable of such a thing?
Can the woman in whom the greatness lives of the ancient warrior princesses of Vulcan be able to translate to such a point the myth into reality?
Can her unconscious love be able to do this?
Can she be able to give substance to the hope?
For her?
For the man she loves without knowing it?
For the Empire?
Can the power of her love be so strong as to counter - victoriously - the grim will, the black will, the dark, murderous fear of...
Of whom, my friends?
Of whom?
Can she be capable of such a thing?
Can the woman in whom the greatness lives of the ancient warrior princesses of Vulcan be able to translate to such a point the myth into reality?
Can her unconscious love be able to do this?
Can she be able to give substance to the hope?
For her?
For the man she loves without knowing it?
For the Empire?
Can the power of her love be so strong as to counter - victoriously - the grim will, the black will, the dark, murderous fear of...
Of whom, my friends?
Of whom?
You can see of whom, my friends.
You can see his gloomy gaze.
Fear, my friends?
Oh come on! Do not be timorous!
Let us read. Yes, let us read...
You can see his gloomy gaze.
Fear, my friends?
Oh come on! Do not be timorous!
Let us read. Yes, let us read...
...The Tenth Chapter of...
And then, do not forget, it comes to fanfiction.
Certainly.
Fanfiction.
And what else, if not?
Certainly.
Fanfiction.
And what else, if not?
Chapter Ten
All happened in a few instants.
She had not even had time to fully realize the significance of the order issued by the hideous, scary specter of terror that stood, looming and ominous, at the door of the Temple. She had not even yet been able to fully grasp the extent of her fear itself.
The Orion girl felt, even before seeing, the Imperial soldiers, aware of the risks of being mortally hit, by acting in this way, but also of the sure result of their action, launching themselves resolutely and with fury at the onslaught of the two enemy men, the only two who had remained still alive, close to her, to perform the order of their Commandant, of the never quite detestable General Hayes.
She saw them come, like a furious and overwhelming tide, and lash out against the two as only one man.
And she saw the gesture, fast, almost imperceptible, of the head of one of the two and the nod of response of the other, even faster, even more imperceptible.
She was close, closer than all the others, including Harrad-Sar and the Vulcan female. She had been able to see all this, even if it happened in the blink of an eye. And able also to see what followed. Even more swiftly than a the blink of an eye.
So she saw the meteoric movement of one of the hands of both the soldiers, as their weapons had ceased their infernal fire; she saw those hands go to their belts, filled with buttons, equipment, devices, to do something that she has been unable to catch; and she saw, without it being possible to notice the slightest solution of continuity, the two soldiers stiffen suddenly and fall, both, to the ground, like dead bodies, just a split second before they were submerged by the enemy tide of Hayes's men.
And then, immediately after, as soon as the bodies of the soldiers, who had hidden them from her sight, moved off, a pair bent on their knees and a pair standing, all with their heads facing down, toward those two forms, towards those two enemies who lay supine on their backs, she saw that these ones were completely immobile.
That their chests were not moving.
Just like that of the man who had commanded them, of the unknown, fake Captain of the Élite Guard who had held the Vulcan Lirpa in his hands.
She saw that they were dead.
Like him.
For a moment, it seemed like the world, in ruins all around them, had ceased to exist, for her, for the soldiers, for all of them; there no longer existed any urgency, it didn't matter anymore.
No human sound, no voice were heard any longer. Only the crackling of the fires, the intermittent thuds of the collapses.
And just then, almost to underline the sudden silence of the weapons and shouts of the combatants, a mighty and dull noise wounded abruptly the ears of all, calling brusquely everyone to the mortally unsafe reality that surrounded them.
The palace that had been the command centre of Harrad-Sar, had started to collapse.
Pieces of walls began to fall, in flames, all around.
As if to respond to the collapse of the former command-palace of the rebels, another sound made its appearance, sharp, strong, strident.
Everyone could see. A large crack was making its way along one of the high and mighty pillars of the great portal of the Temple.
Then a roar, a tremendous din from above.
Everyone's faces turned upward. A huge piece of debris, detached from the palace, had collapsed onto the dome of Temple, with a dreadful impact. It smashed through it and penetrated the inside. The dull roar, the rumble of its falling down towards the base of the Temple rang, dull and powerful.
The pieces of the palace in flaking off, began to fall off with increasing frequency, sweeping the Temple forcefully, falling all over the place on the road and on the parvis.
Then, almost suddenly, everything stopped, as if a sort of new labile equilibrium had been reached.
Before the final ruinous collapsing.
The imperial soldiers - few, now, and all of them more or less seriously bruised and wounded, and now all standing and all firm - began to fidget. All the war helmets turned towards the man still upright and immovable on the door of the Temple..
She had not even had time to fully realize the significance of the order issued by the hideous, scary specter of terror that stood, looming and ominous, at the door of the Temple. She had not even yet been able to fully grasp the extent of her fear itself.
The Orion girl felt, even before seeing, the Imperial soldiers, aware of the risks of being mortally hit, by acting in this way, but also of the sure result of their action, launching themselves resolutely and with fury at the onslaught of the two enemy men, the only two who had remained still alive, close to her, to perform the order of their Commandant, of the never quite detestable General Hayes.
She saw them come, like a furious and overwhelming tide, and lash out against the two as only one man.
And she saw the gesture, fast, almost imperceptible, of the head of one of the two and the nod of response of the other, even faster, even more imperceptible.
She was close, closer than all the others, including Harrad-Sar and the Vulcan female. She had been able to see all this, even if it happened in the blink of an eye. And able also to see what followed. Even more swiftly than a the blink of an eye.
So she saw the meteoric movement of one of the hands of both the soldiers, as their weapons had ceased their infernal fire; she saw those hands go to their belts, filled with buttons, equipment, devices, to do something that she has been unable to catch; and she saw, without it being possible to notice the slightest solution of continuity, the two soldiers stiffen suddenly and fall, both, to the ground, like dead bodies, just a split second before they were submerged by the enemy tide of Hayes's men.
And then, immediately after, as soon as the bodies of the soldiers, who had hidden them from her sight, moved off, a pair bent on their knees and a pair standing, all with their heads facing down, toward those two forms, towards those two enemies who lay supine on their backs, she saw that these ones were completely immobile.
That their chests were not moving.
Just like that of the man who had commanded them, of the unknown, fake Captain of the Élite Guard who had held the Vulcan Lirpa in his hands.
She saw that they were dead.
Like him.
For a moment, it seemed like the world, in ruins all around them, had ceased to exist, for her, for the soldiers, for all of them; there no longer existed any urgency, it didn't matter anymore.
No human sound, no voice were heard any longer. Only the crackling of the fires, the intermittent thuds of the collapses.
And just then, almost to underline the sudden silence of the weapons and shouts of the combatants, a mighty and dull noise wounded abruptly the ears of all, calling brusquely everyone to the mortally unsafe reality that surrounded them.
The palace that had been the command centre of Harrad-Sar, had started to collapse.
Pieces of walls began to fall, in flames, all around.
As if to respond to the collapse of the former command-palace of the rebels, another sound made its appearance, sharp, strong, strident.
Everyone could see. A large crack was making its way along one of the high and mighty pillars of the great portal of the Temple.
Then a roar, a tremendous din from above.
Everyone's faces turned upward. A huge piece of debris, detached from the palace, had collapsed onto the dome of Temple, with a dreadful impact. It smashed through it and penetrated the inside. The dull roar, the rumble of its falling down towards the base of the Temple rang, dull and powerful.
The pieces of the palace in flaking off, began to fall off with increasing frequency, sweeping the Temple forcefully, falling all over the place on the road and on the parvis.
Then, almost suddenly, everything stopped, as if a sort of new labile equilibrium had been reached.
Before the final ruinous collapsing.
The imperial soldiers - few, now, and all of them more or less seriously bruised and wounded, and now all standing and all firm - began to fidget. All the war helmets turned towards the man still upright and immovable on the door of the Temple..
Damn it!
Damn them!
Hayes looked angry and helpless at the bodies of the two enemy soldiers motionless on the ground, lifeless.
Damn them!
The anger and impotence gnawed him, but, also, he felt something very similar to admiration for those soldiers who, without hesitation and without anyone being able to do anything, had patently handed themselves in death before falling alive into the hands of his men. In his hands.
And, also, something akin to a vague sense of fear.
With whom had they to deal? Who were those unknown enemies, so bold, so well organized, and willing even to kill themselves in order not to run the risk of revealing anything of themselves, under the "delicate requests" to which they would be submitted?
Who were those enemies, cold and able to foresee everything? Even the need, and the way, to die, before being forced to surrender?
He shook himself, with hidden fury. But what the hell was he doing? Had he become crazy? Death was falling upon them and he was mulling over those soldiers, enemies, unknown and irreparably dead? Of what had been lost and could be retrieved nevermore?
Go! Away! Out from here! It was idiotic to stay there, to die needlessly under the rubble of the buildings that were collapsing. There was nothing more that they could do. It had gone so. Okay! So be it! But Harrad-Sar was in his hands. And also the two women. He and the two females were not lost. And had not to be lost!
Away from there, as long as they could yet do it, with the prisoners and with their skin still intact. What was he waiting for? The unexpected attack had upset him up to that point? He no longer recognized himself!
He threw himself down the stairs, as shouted, strongly and harshly. "Let's go away from here! Take Harrad-Sar and the two women and run!"
No sooner said than done.
The few surviving soldiers neglected the two women. It was unthinkable they could lift them off the ground, as a dead weight, and drag them away in this way. They were now too few and battered to load themselves not only with Harrad-Sar, who certainly didn't look able to walk, but also with the two women, not to mention that not only they had to run, but also that it was necessary that in some way they made square to defend themselves from any unexpected attack, however improbable, at least until they could be reunited with the bulk of the imperial troops left behind in the rest of the city. The females appeared more or less able to muddle through on their own and required merely to be controlled while all of them were running away from there, and if it could be, indeed if was sure, that the Vulcan female, reduced very badly, had to be pushed and tugged while fleeing and would suffer in desperation, worse for her. So, limiting themselves to simply shaking their weapons with clear meaning against the two women, the soldiers "applied themselves" to Harrad-Sar.
With malicious pleasure, exuding vengeful satisfaction, on indication of the second in command, two of them, not yet in a bad state, grasped with malevolence and desire to hurt the sore Orion man, whose green colour had turned an ill and pale greyish and who seemed to breathe through his teeth with the force of despair. They pulled him straight up with violence by placing themselves on either side of him to keep him standing, and holding him under his armpits.
The annoyance and spite at being forced to drag him in that way, laboriously, with effort, with fatigue, would be largely outclassed by the delight to taste closely his suffering, even more, by the joy of personally being able to make him see stars at every step.
How wonderful, how satisfying being able to afford to handle, to treat in this way, Harrad-Sar, the direct and indirect cause of all their troubles! He would pay dearly, that damn Orion! Very dearly! For having been the soul and the engine of the uprising. For having been the indirect cause of that last, arduous fight they, just they, had had to cope with. For their comrades who had died. For the fear and anxiety that they were experiencing at that moment, forced, as they were, not to run away without him, and at the risk of being crushed at any moment under the debris in tumble. For the fear, unworthy of the Soldiers of the Empire, unworthy of them, of what they were and what they represented, that they had felt before, when they had to face that damn pirate inside the Temple.
Okay. Now they could go away, finally. Their legs were already in motion. Go! Go!
"Stop!"
With dismayed puzzlement the surviving group of bruised soldiers heard the incomprehensible order of their General. They stopped abruptly, before they could have really moved away, incredulous and bewildered, but too disciplined "True Imperial Soldiers", to dare disobey. Discipline was the force of Empire, but in some of them, in their minds, for the first time, it peeped out the hazy perception that, if not substantiated with some kind of aware understanding, that iron and blind discipline could become the Empire's perdition.
But it was not yet time for such an idea.
The Empire was strength. Hardness. And obedience. And indisputable, not contrastable, authority.
They turned towards Hayes, their general and their unquestionable leader, eagerly expecting what he would say or do.
He was there, a little distance from them, yet back, towering over the inert body of the unknown enemy Commandant.
He seemed to be scrutinizing him, almost if trying to penetrate with his cold eyes, hidden behind his visor, the helmet of the man lying unmoving on the ground and if his soldiers had been able to see those eyes, they would also have been able to catch the gaze of awfully vexed annoyance, of rage, or perhaps it would be fairer to say of real scorching hate, with which he was staring at the motionless enemy.
That man, materializing out of nowhere, had surprised him; had been able to put him in trouble; had almost succeeded in robbing him of his coveted, and deserved, plunder. And even in his defeat, he had been able to scoff at him.
He had gone, that man who came out of nothing; then had gone back in the nothingness that had vomited him, under the blind fury and unreasonableness of the resentment that he had been able to arouse in him, Hayes, before he was able to understand the error he was making. Had gone without revealing any of his secrets, and his soldiers, clearly faithful to a hard iron discipline that had bound them to him and to the mission of which he had been in charge.
With those secrets.
That man had twitted him, had mocked him. Had partially robbed him of his glory.
It would have been logical and appropriate that he ordered his men to take with them the body of that man or of one of his subordinates, so that their faces could be seen in person by the Empress and that the scientific staff of the Sovereign could inspect those bodies and their devices. They could have been able to derive from them important and useful data, information, notions, that they, at that time and in that situation and with the means at their disposal, had certainly no way to discover. For this, he had stopped his men right when they were about to finally leave from there, with their prey, trying to avoid impending death. But he had immediately realized that he could not make his soldiers carry that man, or any of his dead companions, along with the other prisoners. It was not possible. They wouldn't have the strength, and at that point, not even the appropriate number to do so with some safety, if of safety one could really talk at those moments. Unless he had not given up the Orion girl or the Vulcan female, indeed, both them, since, obviously, Harrad-Sar was not renounceable.
But the disfiguring snub that that damn opponent Commandant had played on him could not have come up to this point. He could not allow himself to be defrauded until to such a point of what he wanted and deserved.
Nevertheless…
Hayes' eyes seemed to want to pierce the helmet visor of the dead enemy, behind which, since the head lay turned on the right, he could only see the left eye, concealed, however, under his eyelid, blocked shut in the immovability of death.
Nevertheless one face, the face of that man, that one, at least, could have been seen.
Now.
By him.
And maybe a little of those secrets could be revealed.
And maybe he could use them in the upper echelons.
And maybe he could be - would be - not only the conquering hero, but also the bearer of the future victories of the Empire.
It would have been easy to provide some plausible explanations regarding any information that he could be able to find, without going into details of what really had happened. As for his men, in none of them would it be passed through the anteroom of the brain to blurt out anything; only one person had the right to report about missions and actions of war: he, Hayes. And his soldiers knew this well. Very well.
And then, aside from all that… - a surge of awareness and weird sincerity stirred in the depths of Hayes - … he, quite simply, before going away, wanted to see the man's face.
So…
Lowering himself from his towering position over the lying man, Hayes leaned upon him, stooping on his flexed knees and, with his phaser well held in his left hand, he stretched out his right to the helmet of the lifeless enemy to remove it.
Damn them!
Hayes looked angry and helpless at the bodies of the two enemy soldiers motionless on the ground, lifeless.
Damn them!
The anger and impotence gnawed him, but, also, he felt something very similar to admiration for those soldiers who, without hesitation and without anyone being able to do anything, had patently handed themselves in death before falling alive into the hands of his men. In his hands.
And, also, something akin to a vague sense of fear.
With whom had they to deal? Who were those unknown enemies, so bold, so well organized, and willing even to kill themselves in order not to run the risk of revealing anything of themselves, under the "delicate requests" to which they would be submitted?
Who were those enemies, cold and able to foresee everything? Even the need, and the way, to die, before being forced to surrender?
He shook himself, with hidden fury. But what the hell was he doing? Had he become crazy? Death was falling upon them and he was mulling over those soldiers, enemies, unknown and irreparably dead? Of what had been lost and could be retrieved nevermore?
Go! Away! Out from here! It was idiotic to stay there, to die needlessly under the rubble of the buildings that were collapsing. There was nothing more that they could do. It had gone so. Okay! So be it! But Harrad-Sar was in his hands. And also the two women. He and the two females were not lost. And had not to be lost!
Away from there, as long as they could yet do it, with the prisoners and with their skin still intact. What was he waiting for? The unexpected attack had upset him up to that point? He no longer recognized himself!
He threw himself down the stairs, as shouted, strongly and harshly. "Let's go away from here! Take Harrad-Sar and the two women and run!"
No sooner said than done.
The few surviving soldiers neglected the two women. It was unthinkable they could lift them off the ground, as a dead weight, and drag them away in this way. They were now too few and battered to load themselves not only with Harrad-Sar, who certainly didn't look able to walk, but also with the two women, not to mention that not only they had to run, but also that it was necessary that in some way they made square to defend themselves from any unexpected attack, however improbable, at least until they could be reunited with the bulk of the imperial troops left behind in the rest of the city. The females appeared more or less able to muddle through on their own and required merely to be controlled while all of them were running away from there, and if it could be, indeed if was sure, that the Vulcan female, reduced very badly, had to be pushed and tugged while fleeing and would suffer in desperation, worse for her. So, limiting themselves to simply shaking their weapons with clear meaning against the two women, the soldiers "applied themselves" to Harrad-Sar.
With malicious pleasure, exuding vengeful satisfaction, on indication of the second in command, two of them, not yet in a bad state, grasped with malevolence and desire to hurt the sore Orion man, whose green colour had turned an ill and pale greyish and who seemed to breathe through his teeth with the force of despair. They pulled him straight up with violence by placing themselves on either side of him to keep him standing, and holding him under his armpits.
The annoyance and spite at being forced to drag him in that way, laboriously, with effort, with fatigue, would be largely outclassed by the delight to taste closely his suffering, even more, by the joy of personally being able to make him see stars at every step.
How wonderful, how satisfying being able to afford to handle, to treat in this way, Harrad-Sar, the direct and indirect cause of all their troubles! He would pay dearly, that damn Orion! Very dearly! For having been the soul and the engine of the uprising. For having been the indirect cause of that last, arduous fight they, just they, had had to cope with. For their comrades who had died. For the fear and anxiety that they were experiencing at that moment, forced, as they were, not to run away without him, and at the risk of being crushed at any moment under the debris in tumble. For the fear, unworthy of the Soldiers of the Empire, unworthy of them, of what they were and what they represented, that they had felt before, when they had to face that damn pirate inside the Temple.
Okay. Now they could go away, finally. Their legs were already in motion. Go! Go!
"Stop!"
With dismayed puzzlement the surviving group of bruised soldiers heard the incomprehensible order of their General. They stopped abruptly, before they could have really moved away, incredulous and bewildered, but too disciplined "True Imperial Soldiers", to dare disobey. Discipline was the force of Empire, but in some of them, in their minds, for the first time, it peeped out the hazy perception that, if not substantiated with some kind of aware understanding, that iron and blind discipline could become the Empire's perdition.
But it was not yet time for such an idea.
The Empire was strength. Hardness. And obedience. And indisputable, not contrastable, authority.
They turned towards Hayes, their general and their unquestionable leader, eagerly expecting what he would say or do.
He was there, a little distance from them, yet back, towering over the inert body of the unknown enemy Commandant.
He seemed to be scrutinizing him, almost if trying to penetrate with his cold eyes, hidden behind his visor, the helmet of the man lying unmoving on the ground and if his soldiers had been able to see those eyes, they would also have been able to catch the gaze of awfully vexed annoyance, of rage, or perhaps it would be fairer to say of real scorching hate, with which he was staring at the motionless enemy.
That man, materializing out of nowhere, had surprised him; had been able to put him in trouble; had almost succeeded in robbing him of his coveted, and deserved, plunder. And even in his defeat, he had been able to scoff at him.
He had gone, that man who came out of nothing; then had gone back in the nothingness that had vomited him, under the blind fury and unreasonableness of the resentment that he had been able to arouse in him, Hayes, before he was able to understand the error he was making. Had gone without revealing any of his secrets, and his soldiers, clearly faithful to a hard iron discipline that had bound them to him and to the mission of which he had been in charge.
With those secrets.
That man had twitted him, had mocked him. Had partially robbed him of his glory.
It would have been logical and appropriate that he ordered his men to take with them the body of that man or of one of his subordinates, so that their faces could be seen in person by the Empress and that the scientific staff of the Sovereign could inspect those bodies and their devices. They could have been able to derive from them important and useful data, information, notions, that they, at that time and in that situation and with the means at their disposal, had certainly no way to discover. For this, he had stopped his men right when they were about to finally leave from there, with their prey, trying to avoid impending death. But he had immediately realized that he could not make his soldiers carry that man, or any of his dead companions, along with the other prisoners. It was not possible. They wouldn't have the strength, and at that point, not even the appropriate number to do so with some safety, if of safety one could really talk at those moments. Unless he had not given up the Orion girl or the Vulcan female, indeed, both them, since, obviously, Harrad-Sar was not renounceable.
But the disfiguring snub that that damn opponent Commandant had played on him could not have come up to this point. He could not allow himself to be defrauded until to such a point of what he wanted and deserved.
Nevertheless…
Hayes' eyes seemed to want to pierce the helmet visor of the dead enemy, behind which, since the head lay turned on the right, he could only see the left eye, concealed, however, under his eyelid, blocked shut in the immovability of death.
Nevertheless one face, the face of that man, that one, at least, could have been seen.
Now.
By him.
And maybe a little of those secrets could be revealed.
And maybe he could use them in the upper echelons.
And maybe he could be - would be - not only the conquering hero, but also the bearer of the future victories of the Empire.
It would have been easy to provide some plausible explanations regarding any information that he could be able to find, without going into details of what really had happened. As for his men, in none of them would it be passed through the anteroom of the brain to blurt out anything; only one person had the right to report about missions and actions of war: he, Hayes. And his soldiers knew this well. Very well.
And then, aside from all that… - a surge of awareness and weird sincerity stirred in the depths of Hayes - … he, quite simply, before going away, wanted to see the man's face.
So…
Lowering himself from his towering position over the lying man, Hayes leaned upon him, stooping on his flexed knees and, with his phaser well held in his left hand, he stretched out his right to the helmet of the lifeless enemy to remove it.
Phlox almost – almost
- no longer felt fear or apprehension.
What was happening in front of him was too striking. It was… uncanny. It absorbed him virtually completely.
It had made him go back, without him even noticing, to the Phlox of a time that had been and no longer was; to the Phlox who could have been and had not been. And who now - surprisingly, partially, probably or, rather, almost certainly, without such a thing being ever possible to be fully and truly realized - was in some way again.
The hypnotic litany of T'Pol was continuing without end.
She was reciting a prayer.
A mystic supplication.
A liturgical chant
A transcendent order.
What was happening in front of him was too striking. It was… uncanny. It absorbed him virtually completely.
It had made him go back, without him even noticing, to the Phlox of a time that had been and no longer was; to the Phlox who could have been and had not been. And who now - surprisingly, partially, probably or, rather, almost certainly, without such a thing being ever possible to be fully and truly realized - was in some way again.
The hypnotic litany of T'Pol was continuing without end.
She was reciting a prayer.
A mystic supplication.
A liturgical chant
A transcendent order.
The young Orion girl
goggled her eyes, unmindful, for a moment, of the cut-throats who surrounded
her, of the Vulcan, of Harrad-Sar, even of Hayes, even of her fate of horror.
It could not be!
Could not!
Yet ...
Yet it was true.
It could not be!
Could not!
Yet ...
Yet it was true.
The litany stopped. Suddenly.
T'Pol stiffened at the spasm.
Goggled her eyes, holding her breath.
Phlox almost choked.
Then, it was as if the Vulcan's face, her features, became slack. She went limp, sagged on herself.
She dropped her visage, her head went down, her hair fell downwards all around it.
A brief moment, then her head rose.
Her face appeared again; haggard, taut, worn down. But alive.
And, in some way, relieved. As lightened.
It nearly seemed that on her lips hovered the shadow of a weak and laboured smile.
From her tense mouth came out a word. In Vulcan too.
Phlox heard it clearly.
It was feeble, yet someway deafening.
It came off together with a faint, soft sigh, which to the doctor's ears resounded louder than the strongest of breaths.
"Ha!"
T'Pol stiffened at the spasm.
Goggled her eyes, holding her breath.
Phlox almost choked.
Then, it was as if the Vulcan's face, her features, became slack. She went limp, sagged on herself.
She dropped her visage, her head went down, her hair fell downwards all around it.
A brief moment, then her head rose.
Her face appeared again; haggard, taut, worn down. But alive.
And, in some way, relieved. As lightened.
It nearly seemed that on her lips hovered the shadow of a weak and laboured smile.
From her tense mouth came out a word. In Vulcan too.
Phlox heard it clearly.
It was feeble, yet someway deafening.
It came off together with a faint, soft sigh, which to the doctor's ears resounded louder than the strongest of breaths.
"Ha!"
The girl looked around, at
the others, as if searching for some confirmation in Harrad-Sar's face and in
that of the Vulcan female and saw that their eyes, even those of the Orion man,
even in his visible pain and depletion, were enlarged and astounded, fixed on
the two men, on Hayes and on the other, lying on the soil blood-soaked by his
blood.
And all the helmets were turned towards them.
She realized she had not mistaken. Hers hadn't been a hallucination.
The chest of the man, flat on his back against the ground under the odious Hayes, had moved.
He… had breathed.
She returned her eyes to the scene.
And….
Both she and the others were able to see it, clearly.
Beneath Hayes, leaning down over the dead enemy, on his flexed knees, with his phaser, and with his hand stretched forward, to the man's helmet… the dead Commandant's chest was moving in breaths.
How the chest of a man who lives does.
And all the helmets were turned towards them.
She realized she had not mistaken. Hers hadn't been a hallucination.
The chest of the man, flat on his back against the ground under the odious Hayes, had moved.
He… had breathed.
She returned her eyes to the scene.
And….
Both she and the others were able to see it, clearly.
Beneath Hayes, leaning down over the dead enemy, on his flexed knees, with his phaser, and with his hand stretched forward, to the man's helmet… the dead Commandant's chest was moving in breaths.
How the chest of a man who lives does.
The doctor changed his
position. He sat himself on the floor, more comfortably.
So to speak.
He felt himself go limp, as T'Pol.
He stared at her, well aware that her eyes, no longer wide-open, no longer goggled, a bit, just a tiny bit, quieter, were seeing and watching. But not him. Certainly, not him.
He repeated to himself the word that T'Pol had uttered.
It meant "Yes."
But he had no time to get lost behind what that word signified, for real, beyond its literal meaning.
The battle the Vulcan was fighting had not ended yet.
She stiffened again and her breathing heightened again.
Her eyes, once again tense, alert, were watching.
Disquieted and intent.
So to speak.
He felt himself go limp, as T'Pol.
He stared at her, well aware that her eyes, no longer wide-open, no longer goggled, a bit, just a tiny bit, quieter, were seeing and watching. But not him. Certainly, not him.
He repeated to himself the word that T'Pol had uttered.
It meant "Yes."
But he had no time to get lost behind what that word signified, for real, beyond its literal meaning.
The battle the Vulcan was fighting had not ended yet.
She stiffened again and her breathing heightened again.
Her eyes, once again tense, alert, were watching.
Disquieted and intent.
Hayes perceived it, rather
than actually heard it, but he could not realize that that sound, beneath him,
was that of a wide-ranging breath coming out from the chest of the man upon
whom he was stooping, nor that other breaths followed the first. He hadn't the
time, wasn't able to understand.
Nor, least of all, he was able to finish his gesture.
Nor, least of all, he was able to finish his gesture.
The Vulcan jerked, abruptly
and suddenly.
The doctor flinched, at her sharp and violent movement.
The doctor flinched, at her sharp and violent movement.
Hayes jerked, abruptly and
suddenly.
He flinched, looking at his hand.
It had been stopped brusquely and forcefully.
Another hand had grabbed his wrist, stopping what his hand was about to do.
He flinched, looking at his hand.
It had been stopped brusquely and forcefully.
Another hand had grabbed his wrist, stopping what his hand was about to do.
The girl jerked, abruptly and suddenly.
She flinched, staring at what she was seeing.
No one moved, no one reacted, at that sight, sudden and unexpected. And scary.
In front of the vision of a dead man who, all of a sudden, starts to breathe; in front of the sight of the hand of a dead man, that snaps up, violently and forcefully, from the death's frost where it should have remained immobilized forever... who ever could find the promptness, the strength, to react?
She flinched, staring at what she was seeing.
No one moved, no one reacted, at that sight, sudden and unexpected. And scary.
In front of the vision of a dead man who, all of a sudden, starts to breathe; in front of the sight of the hand of a dead man, that snaps up, violently and forcefully, from the death's frost where it should have remained immobilized forever... who ever could find the promptness, the strength, to react?
Amazed and incredulous,
Hayes did not react.
With wide eyes he stared at the helmet's visor of the man beneath him.
Behind that visor two eyes were watching him.
Two scowling eyes and intensely blue.
And one, the one right, now in full view... was distorted. Was marred and disfigured by a deforming scar.
With wide eyes he stared at the helmet's visor of the man beneath him.
Behind that visor two eyes were watching him.
Two scowling eyes and intensely blue.
And one, the one right, now in full view... was distorted. Was marred and disfigured by a deforming scar.
The doctor leaned forward.
What was going on?
What was that look on the face of T'Pol? What did she see?
Her visage looked distorted, so much was the intensity of her expression. It nearly seemed to deform her face.
What was going on?
What was that look on the face of T'Pol? What did she see?
Her visage looked distorted, so much was the intensity of her expression. It nearly seemed to deform her face.
Hayes jolted, freeing his
wrist with a nervous and overwrought sharp tug.
He sprang to his feet.
It was not possible!
His eyes weren't able to detach from those of the man. They couldn't believe what he was seeing; couldn't take for true, happening for real, that now that man - painfully, laboriously, with difficulty; incredibly! - was endeavouring to get up.
No. It could not.
Yet ... the man was doing it!
And those eyes ...
THOSE EYES!
An irrational fear, primitive, indomitable, grabbed Hayes.
When you find yourself facing something that neither cruelty nor prevarication are able to dominate, whilst cruelty and prevarication are the only way that you know, your heart will drown in the lightless fear, and the only thing you will able to think to do, will be to erase what darkened your mind with an irrational dread, to make it cease to exist, without even thinking about possible explanations of its existence, without even lingering to think about what you could do, by trying to comprehend it.
You can be the strongest of men, you can brag about being the most cynical, the more disenchanted of men, but if you have not been able to emerge from the darkness that generated you, if you will continue to feed on that darkness, no light of reason will ever be able to really enlighten your pathway.
Cruelty and prevarication, the alibi of your fear and your insecurity, won't be able to protect you, when you will have to face the darkness you came from.
You will tremble and forget everything you are, everything you think you are.
The dark depth of the primordial terror will claim you. It, your true dominator, will exact, and will have, its blind domination over you.
So it had been for men well superior to Hayes, in intellect and capabilities, and so it was for him.
Nothing he had thought, nothing of the smart and rational argumentations that he had made to himself before, existed anymore.
He knew, he was well aware of the rumours, querulous and trembling, which had circulated; of the murmurs filled with fear that had spread.
Who had rescued the treacherous Vulcan female? Who could he be? Who, if not him?
And he had laughed at those voices, at those murmurs of sissies. He had laughed scornfully at those tremulous whispers that gave back the body to a man whose body was lost for ever in the black nothingness.
And now…
He did not want that man! He would not, could not look at him, much less think to take him away with him.
Simply, he did not want him!
He did not want him, alive!
That man was dead.
It was not possible that he had risen from the shadow. And, if no one had been able to see his dead body, the first time, though only the impenetrable obscurity of death could have been his fate, this time yes. This time yes!
He and the others had seen his body!
And it was dead. DEAD!
And it was not possible that it, shot by his infallible hand, with the lungs motionless, drowned in their own blood, with the heart blocked in its vital beating, could resurrect from that shadow, from the shadow where already it should have been.
It was not possible that that man, dead twice, twice could emerge from the yawning chasm with no light and no return!
Was not possible.
It could not be possible!
Had not to be possible!
He now belonged to the world of the dead and had to stay there!
Hayes yelled. His voice unrecognizable. Broken. Scratched. Cracked.
"Go away! Go back in the shadow!"
He aimed his phaser just against those blue eyes and piercing.
To delete them.
To make them disappear from his sight.
"And there won't be for you a third time!
He sprang to his feet.
It was not possible!
His eyes weren't able to detach from those of the man. They couldn't believe what he was seeing; couldn't take for true, happening for real, that now that man - painfully, laboriously, with difficulty; incredibly! - was endeavouring to get up.
No. It could not.
Yet ... the man was doing it!
And those eyes ...
THOSE EYES!
An irrational fear, primitive, indomitable, grabbed Hayes.
When you find yourself facing something that neither cruelty nor prevarication are able to dominate, whilst cruelty and prevarication are the only way that you know, your heart will drown in the lightless fear, and the only thing you will able to think to do, will be to erase what darkened your mind with an irrational dread, to make it cease to exist, without even thinking about possible explanations of its existence, without even lingering to think about what you could do, by trying to comprehend it.
You can be the strongest of men, you can brag about being the most cynical, the more disenchanted of men, but if you have not been able to emerge from the darkness that generated you, if you will continue to feed on that darkness, no light of reason will ever be able to really enlighten your pathway.
Cruelty and prevarication, the alibi of your fear and your insecurity, won't be able to protect you, when you will have to face the darkness you came from.
You will tremble and forget everything you are, everything you think you are.
The dark depth of the primordial terror will claim you. It, your true dominator, will exact, and will have, its blind domination over you.
So it had been for men well superior to Hayes, in intellect and capabilities, and so it was for him.
Nothing he had thought, nothing of the smart and rational argumentations that he had made to himself before, existed anymore.
He knew, he was well aware of the rumours, querulous and trembling, which had circulated; of the murmurs filled with fear that had spread.
Who had rescued the treacherous Vulcan female? Who could he be? Who, if not him?
And he had laughed at those voices, at those murmurs of sissies. He had laughed scornfully at those tremulous whispers that gave back the body to a man whose body was lost for ever in the black nothingness.
And now…
He did not want that man! He would not, could not look at him, much less think to take him away with him.
Simply, he did not want him!
He did not want him, alive!
That man was dead.
It was not possible that he had risen from the shadow. And, if no one had been able to see his dead body, the first time, though only the impenetrable obscurity of death could have been his fate, this time yes. This time yes!
He and the others had seen his body!
And it was dead. DEAD!
And it was not possible that it, shot by his infallible hand, with the lungs motionless, drowned in their own blood, with the heart blocked in its vital beating, could resurrect from that shadow, from the shadow where already it should have been.
It was not possible that that man, dead twice, twice could emerge from the yawning chasm with no light and no return!
Was not possible.
It could not be possible!
Had not to be possible!
He now belonged to the world of the dead and had to stay there!
Hayes yelled. His voice unrecognizable. Broken. Scratched. Cracked.
"Go away! Go back in the shadow!"
He aimed his phaser just against those blue eyes and piercing.
To delete them.
To make them disappear from his sight.
"And there won't be for you a third time!
By now Phlox did not worry
over what he should have done. He had stopped burning his brain, endeavouring
to guess if he had to intervene, with T'Pol, or not.
Something that could be called resignation had taken in him the place of the anger and fear. It was strange, but it was so. And, even more strangely, he did not complained much of this, because this resignation, the unknown, and relative, quiet that it was able to give his mind, until a moment ago in perpetual turmoil, had also given him, had made him have again something that he no longer thought to possess.
The desire to know.
And...
Phlox lowered his head, unable to acknowledge - for real, in all its extent - such a sensation.
... and a sort of feeling participation.
How was it possible? But, on the other hand, how was it possible that between two such different beings (or maybe, in reality, to well see, not so much unlike?) as Tucker and T'Pol, had been formed that Bond? That Bond that resembled ... that looked like... that maybe was ...
Phlox fumbled in his brain and in his memory, so tried, in those moments.
…love.
He remembered. He had already had such thoughts, when he had begun to understand, but, certainly, not how now, not with the perception and clarity that he had now, not with such a completeness. That word had already budded in his mind, formerly, when Tucker was gone away and he was left alone with T'Pol, when, finally, she had slid into a sleep that, at that moment, had all the characteristics of a sleep truly restorative, truly restful, exactly what she needed, before becoming, for her, such a sort of nightmare. But now, in the face of what was happening, in face of what he was seeing happen, that word, and its meaning, and what lay really behind it, assumed sharpest outlines, much more clear-cut. And, above all, a very greater depth.
That word, speaking like General Tucker would do in his corrosive sarcasm, was not a threepenny word.
It was a word that dragged behind it a world, a whole world. An universe. Different from that with which he and everyone had to do, the sordid universe that was their own.
But, if so, regardless of whatever he could have thought before, really could one believe that in this sordid universe could exist, that word? The thing it stood for?
And nevertheless… eh yes… nevertheless once that word could be found in the books ... in… in the poems, yes ... of the dreamers. Everywhere. On Denobula, on Andoria, on Vulcan. Yes, even there. And, even... even on Earth.
But then, could it be that, long time ago, that thing existed, even if arduous to find? That people were in search of it, and then it had been forgotten, inevitably, submerged by the rising tide of an Empire useful, necessary, ineluctable in order to put a little regulation in this chaotic universe, but born under the sign of prevarication? And maybe even born in this way because the ruling evil in this universe could not be governed if not by means of bossiness, on pain of the end of everything in the chaos? Because, actually, that word, that thing, had been already blanked out from everyone's consciences, in the selfish fights blazing up in all worlds, among and inside all races, before the Humans' advent? Because the destiny of this universe couldn't be anything but selfishness and wickedness?
But... - Phlox snapped a quick and pensive glance at the vigilant eyes and restlessness of T'Pol - … and if, maybe, only maybe, it wasn't so? If there could be… hope?
Could it be for real, as he, with less knowledge, less awareness, less comprehension, had already thought before, that now that word, that thing, had come back? In the most unlikely of ways? Through the most unlikely of people?
Could it be for real - and now, in the light of what he had seen and was seeing unfold before his eyes, the strength of this thought, of this question, their implications, struck Phlox with a strength far greater than how it had happened to him before - that there, in front of him, despite the misery in which it appeared at that moment, there was ... was struggling to fully reveal itself… the hope for a different world?
But, there could be a different world?
A world where there could be room for hope?
For that word? For that thing?
For… the love?
Before... before - Phlox gasped under the impact of his sudden, unexpected, keen perception - before the Empire, its order, the universe itself that he knew, might collapse, destroyed just by the selfishness and wickedness, from which its dominator, the Human Empire, had been born and which it was no longer capable of controlling, of ruling? Destroyed in the collapse, under the rubble of the lopsided tower constructed by it to scale the stars?
So then ... if it was so ... no, no ... if ... if it was possible, or perhaps probable ... very probable... highly probable... or maybe... maybe practically certain... that it was so, in this case, should he really think, should he believe, as, much less perceptibly and knowingly, he had previously thought and postulated, that he was observing, scrutinizing, perusing, the hope, the only hope there could be for the Empire? For its destiny? And consequently for the universe where he was born, that he wanted to continue to exist? On pain of the darkness of the disarray? The Empire for which he did not know alternatives, was not able to imagine alternatives!
Yeah, he wasn't able to. But, and if there was some alternative? If there was the possibility, the hope, for a different Empire?
After all, they had seen that there was another universe, where that word, that thing, from what he had been able to pick up from the incredulous and contemptuous chattering of those who had had access to the data base of the vessel coming from it, had the right to asylum. Maybe, well, maybe, T'Pol was not entirely wrong, maybe it could be possible to build a different world.
Sure, sure. Let's admit. But that other world, was a world without the Empire, and this was inconceivable, impossible.
And then, injustice, oppression, selfishness, wickedness, were anything but strangers to that world, to that other universe. Those others, those people who seemed people of this universe, but who were not… well, they spoke in one way, but in the finale acted in another, very similar to theirs, not to say same as theirs. The potency itself of the other ship, the one that came from the other universe, its destructive weapons, were the most obvious evidence.
That was certainly not a world without war.
Sure. However... however, apparently, from what he had heard, from what he could perceive and understand, in those others, in the fact itself that there, in the place of the Empire there was a confederation of worlds, although evidently in constant trouble - and how could it be otherwise? Without an Empire able to impose on all its own law? - …well, in them there was a desire, an aspiration, a tension to a different world.
A… a better world.
A world where could exist… love.
Oh yeah. Alright. But he, Phlox, and his travelling companions in this universe, the universe that was own of them, they were not those others; their brains, their way of life, were not those of those others, were their own; they were marked by this universe, by their universe. And... and he was not at all sure that he wanted to be different, that he wanted a different universe. Indeed, he didn't want such a universe!
He wanted to be him! Not another man! And, he was sure, none of the sons of this universe would want to be different from what he was.
Not even T'Pol! For sure!
She simply had wanted to liberate herself and her people and the other peoples - yes, this was true, although she had sought the help of non-Vulcans for obvious necessity - from the yoke of the Humans. But to do that, what had she done? She had betrayed, had deceived. She had coaxed, had acted, by the back-door, on the sleazy side of each one, also on him, and had thrown in the trash what she had used and that afterward had become no longer useful to her. Just, and above all - now Phlox was well aware of that – Tucker, to get whose help, fraudulently, she had even used herself, her body, the desire that she knew she was capable of arousing in him to then leave him to himself and his destiny.
She had behaved in the only way she knew, the only one that there could be for her, a daughter, she too, of this universe. Not of that other!
Nevertheless ... eh, nevertheless she had tried. She had attempted, had fought to seek an alternative. And she had paid. Hard. In the first person. And was still paying.
And, irony of lot, irony, wicked irony, of this wicked world, she was paying now, due to a tie, a Bond - born from her - that bound her, life and death, just to the one towards whom she had acted most badly, against whom she had committed the worst betrayal.
Tucker. Him
Yeah. Tucker. And him? Why this unsuspected double-game on his part? Why this secret alter-life, whose construction had certainly had to cost him untold efforts? What did he want? Force? Power? But he could pursue them, in the same way as all the others. He had the means to do it, the ability, intelligence, and surely he had had no shortage of opportunities.
So what? Where did he want to arrive? For what, why, had he got moving so much? Risking his life. Like now. Indeed to want to tell the whole, risking much more than his life.
Was… was he working, he too, for an alternative? Irrespective of the reasons, could it be that he, in his own way, in the only way that a man born under the sign of the Empire was able to know, along the only road he could go, the only one that could be allowed to him, was seeking, as T'Pol was doing for her and for Vulcans and for the other non-Humans by necessity, for an alternative? In his case, for an alternative to this kind of auto-destructive Empire? For … for its salvation? Could it be that he had understood the existence of such a peril? And if so, as a consequence of... of what? What could have marked his life to such an extent? That life of which, in hindsight, no one knew anything?
Phlox was unable to explain why, but the vision of Tucker's horrible scar emerged peremptorily in his mind.
And why Tucker - he, exactly he - had saved T'Pol? In what could she ever be useful to him in the dangerous game he was carrying out? Always that such an idea concerning a possible use of T'Pol in the game he was playing, had really touched upon his brain, because there was more behind this absurd behaviour on his part. Eh sure, because he had jeopardized his life to save her, and, to make her heal and recover, had saved him too, Phlox. Why all that? Because of the Bond? Okay, let's admit. But, and this was the point, the Bond could not be born without there having been on both sides - on both sides - something that would justify its formation. Now, an attraction, of course, this, there was. But there is no beard of purely physical attraction that is capable of provoking the birth of a Bond, and… of such a type of Bond.
It is needed more, much more.
It is needed ...
It had been needed that thing.
It had been needed love.
Evil, perhaps, ill, the love that can arise only in this universe made of hate.
Yet still love.
Not for nothing the Vulcan Bond was legend, to such an extent that practically no one knew of it. Not for nothing it had its roots in the distant past of Vulcan, when the Vulcans were not afraid to be who they were - brave, strong, emotional, warriors, such that if they were still so at the time of their encounter with the Humans, probably they would have known how to counter them. How much stuff had they lost, the Vulcans, in their ascent to the logic! They had lost also their roots. They had lost - in the most stupid way - even that thing.
The love.
Yeah. Just so. Although, come to think, this had happened for reasons in a sense different from those of others, perhaps… nobler, yes, that was the term; and perhaps a little of that ancient nobility had remained stuck to T'Pol, since she had felt the exigency, the unexampled will, to try to fight for freedom. Maybe it was not a case that T'Pol was a Vulcan. Indeed, to be more correct… a Vulcan of other ages. A Vulcan of legend.
Legend.
Once again this term came to the mind of the physician.
Legend. T'Pol, a Vulcan of legend. As the Bond. As what she had attempted to do. As what she had done. As what she was doing at this moment.
Legend; as the legends of a disappeared time, when the Vulcans hadn't yet ended up, they too as all the others, succumbing to this traitorous and malignant universe and to its violence. They were doubly losers, because they had lost the love for the sake of an ancient choice of life which eventually had made them fall as foolish puppets in the hands of the Humans and that in any case they had not been able to really pursue, by fragmenting in myriads of clans in perennial struggle with each other.
More and worse than how it had happened in their ancient past.
Surely, with much less fierceness. And with much less, much, much less nobility.
And without the slightest trace of love.
And so, like all the others, and before the others, they had fallen prey to the Humans.
They, the Vulcans. So clever. So skilful. So perfect. So logical.
So different from what they had been in the days where the warrior princesses of their legends had existed, beautiful and strong and brave, as T'Pol had appeared in her struggle of legend in that cage of horror.
T'Pol…
A princess of ancient times.
A warrior princess.
A princess of legend.
Phlox had never thought of her in those terms. Would never have dreamed of doing it, would not even have been capable of that.
Before.
However ...
If he thought about how she'd fought in that cage of horror, about the desperate physical force and the fortitude, the strenuous dignity, that she had showed in that predicament... well, it wasn't difficult all in all to think of her as a legendary warrior princess, indeed he was sure that this was the impression that she had given to his compatriots, who had watched her in what was supposed to be her inglorious end, and that, instead, had ended up turning into some kind of apotheosis.
And… as the warrior princesses of the ancient ages of legends, T'Pol had been able to give again life and substance to that thing; and had tied to her, inextricably, a man, a Human, who seemed even to give physical shape on his face to the evil which deforms the soul.
The soul of the Human Empire.
Of this Human Empire.
And that, perhaps, could change.
Phlox looked profoundly - pensive and amazed - into these bizarre thoughts thronging his mind.
A Human. An arrogant and scornful man of the Empire of men, tied, with his personal and concealed war, to an unveiled, disclosed, Vulcan warrior princess, who was fighting her own war. Tied to each other. Indissolubly. The Human and the Vulcan. In a common destiny in which, together, they could win, whereas, if isolated, they could only lose.
And all this because, between them, unexpectedly, incredibly, astoundingly, without even suspecting it, without even being able to conceive it, it had born thatthing.
And, together with it, thanks to it, perhaps even... even…
Phlox tried to understand, to penetrate, if he would succeed, in the heart of the whirly flickering of thoughts and feelings that assailed him, without him being able to find any way to defend himself, to shield himself from them; thoughts and feelings that he had never felt, if not, very vaguely, in his distant youth; that he would never have believed that he might have again.
Was it so powerful, that Bond?
Was it so powerful, the love?
To the point ... yes, to the point that it reverberated in some way also on him? To the point that it was able to make him feel those feelings? That sense of participation?
And could this happen even to others? Could it be that it was like a ripple on the water, which arises gentle and slight - unnoticed, unperceived - under the pressure of a light wind, almost imperceptible, but persistent, more and more high, and thus, little by little, the ripple spreads over the whole surface, until this becomes wavy, and choppy - and alive - in its entirety?
And if it was so powerful, could it be that... could it be really possible that...
The shadow of such a thought, the very faint shadow, if compared with the clear-cut clarity it was reaching now, had already touched Phlox's conscience, sluggishly and lazily coming back to life, when his brain had began to connect with each other the various tesseras of the mosaic that was proving his eyes. But now ... now ... there was a lot more in that thought, than all there could have been before.
Could it be that... that Tucker and T'Pol, together, - Together. And only together! - could be the Empire's hope?
That in them, in them both, tied to each other by the Bond, by their… their love, unknown even to them, it would lie… the Empire's destiny?
Incapable of managing, of dealing with such sensations, with such thoughts, so unfamiliar, so foreign to him, the doctor focused - focused fiercely - on the situation, on the way he had to act. He needed things more down to earth, more consistent with what he was, with the Phlox who simply wanted to live and survive.
If he had intervened, the Bond between T'Pol and Tucker, it was now evident, could get broken and T'Pol would have gone crazy, at best, or dead, at worst, which meant that, if Tucker had returned, he, Phlox, would pay the price, but also that, if Tucker did not go back, he would remain at the mercy of those Aliens. And, also in this case, he would pay the price.
If he had not intervened, T'Pol could go crazy or die, in case Tucker had died, wherever he was. And he, Phlox, would remain even in this case at the mercy of the Aliens and would be thrown out the window, just to talk soft.
But if he had not intervened and, miraculously, T'Pol had remained alive because Tucker had remained alive, then he could still nourish some hope - Hope, again hope! - to wriggle out of this derisive fate, obviously as long as the mind of T'Pol, already sorely tried by what she had gone through, was able to hold on.
Oh, really a good situation, nothing to say. But in any case things were so.
The only…yes, the only hope for him was that T'Pol could in some way, he did not know how, protect Tucker, who, it was clear, was in big trouble, but apparently - thanks to the Supreme Healer! No. Thanks to T'Pol. Thanks to this Bond of legend - not dead. At least apparently not yet.
And, to make sure things to go in this way, he could not - had not to – intervene; he had only to hope – Again! Again this word! - that the strength of Tucker ... the strength of T'Pol ... were sufficient; that the strength, good or bad, that, where everything he had fantasized in his fanciful fantasies, all in all anything but fanciful, about the past and present of the self-styled simple Chief Engineer was really true, the strength he must have had and couldn't not have even now, had its counterpart in the strength of T'Pol.
Certainly, about the fact that T'Pol's strength was great, there could be no doubt: just look at how she had been able to cope, in the spirit and body, the abhorrent fate to which she had been destined to succumb, in that cage of horror. But now she had to find in herself, and just when she had hardly started to recover from the wounds that that strenuous fight had let in her soul and in her flesh, the strength to safeguard Tucker, from a distance, and, in addition, also the strength to withstand the emotions that were so hard distressing her.
And where - consciously or unconsciously - she had succeeded in all this, she would also have to be strong enough to recover from this further, extremely powerful physical and psychological trauma.
For her own salvation, sure.
And, ultimately, also for that of him, Phlox.
A nice pile of frail…of frail hopes, there was no denying it.
But until now, incredibly, every hope, every unspoken hope, that he had seen running on the face, actions, behaviour of T'Pol, seemed to have been translated into reality.
So why not continue to hope?
Why not continue to hope that the strength of T'Pol was really so great? Or, to be more correct, that she was able to find in the strength of Tucker, if what he knew about the legendary Vulcan Bond corresponded even partially to reality, her own strength? The strength she needed? Just as Tucker himself could do? In a mutual and mysterious, unfathomable support?
It was a Bond of legend, wasn't it?
And legends have no limits.
As hope.
And so - he raised his head again – let's hope.
What he had to do was simply to stay to look at her.
And to wait.
So he did this.
He looked at T'Pol; and into her hope. And into his own
He followed the drama that was unfolding before his eyes.
The rest did not matter, could not. Like all the thoughts that had piled up in his brain in a nano-hundredth of a second.
What really mattered was what was happening in front of him.
There, before him, in the acts, gestures, expressions of T'Pol's visage, he was able to read and decipher the evolution of events, of the fight to the death that surely at that time Tucker was fighting somewhere in the universe.
And of the fight with no quarter that T'Pol was fighting there, in that room, with Tucker and for Tucker. Which was like saying for herself.
And for him, too. For the poor, unarmed doctor that he, Phlox, was.
And perhaps... for the Empire.
And now the Vulcan had changed expression again, she was appearing upset, one more time. Awfully upset.
She breathed harshly, with difficulty.
Her hands tormented the edge of her hospital gown.
Something that could be called resignation had taken in him the place of the anger and fear. It was strange, but it was so. And, even more strangely, he did not complained much of this, because this resignation, the unknown, and relative, quiet that it was able to give his mind, until a moment ago in perpetual turmoil, had also given him, had made him have again something that he no longer thought to possess.
The desire to know.
And...
Phlox lowered his head, unable to acknowledge - for real, in all its extent - such a sensation.
... and a sort of feeling participation.
How was it possible? But, on the other hand, how was it possible that between two such different beings (or maybe, in reality, to well see, not so much unlike?) as Tucker and T'Pol, had been formed that Bond? That Bond that resembled ... that looked like... that maybe was ...
Phlox fumbled in his brain and in his memory, so tried, in those moments.
…love.
He remembered. He had already had such thoughts, when he had begun to understand, but, certainly, not how now, not with the perception and clarity that he had now, not with such a completeness. That word had already budded in his mind, formerly, when Tucker was gone away and he was left alone with T'Pol, when, finally, she had slid into a sleep that, at that moment, had all the characteristics of a sleep truly restorative, truly restful, exactly what she needed, before becoming, for her, such a sort of nightmare. But now, in the face of what was happening, in face of what he was seeing happen, that word, and its meaning, and what lay really behind it, assumed sharpest outlines, much more clear-cut. And, above all, a very greater depth.
That word, speaking like General Tucker would do in his corrosive sarcasm, was not a threepenny word.
It was a word that dragged behind it a world, a whole world. An universe. Different from that with which he and everyone had to do, the sordid universe that was their own.
But, if so, regardless of whatever he could have thought before, really could one believe that in this sordid universe could exist, that word? The thing it stood for?
And nevertheless… eh yes… nevertheless once that word could be found in the books ... in… in the poems, yes ... of the dreamers. Everywhere. On Denobula, on Andoria, on Vulcan. Yes, even there. And, even... even on Earth.
But then, could it be that, long time ago, that thing existed, even if arduous to find? That people were in search of it, and then it had been forgotten, inevitably, submerged by the rising tide of an Empire useful, necessary, ineluctable in order to put a little regulation in this chaotic universe, but born under the sign of prevarication? And maybe even born in this way because the ruling evil in this universe could not be governed if not by means of bossiness, on pain of the end of everything in the chaos? Because, actually, that word, that thing, had been already blanked out from everyone's consciences, in the selfish fights blazing up in all worlds, among and inside all races, before the Humans' advent? Because the destiny of this universe couldn't be anything but selfishness and wickedness?
But... - Phlox snapped a quick and pensive glance at the vigilant eyes and restlessness of T'Pol - … and if, maybe, only maybe, it wasn't so? If there could be… hope?
Could it be for real, as he, with less knowledge, less awareness, less comprehension, had already thought before, that now that word, that thing, had come back? In the most unlikely of ways? Through the most unlikely of people?
Could it be for real - and now, in the light of what he had seen and was seeing unfold before his eyes, the strength of this thought, of this question, their implications, struck Phlox with a strength far greater than how it had happened to him before - that there, in front of him, despite the misery in which it appeared at that moment, there was ... was struggling to fully reveal itself… the hope for a different world?
But, there could be a different world?
A world where there could be room for hope?
For that word? For that thing?
For… the love?
Before... before - Phlox gasped under the impact of his sudden, unexpected, keen perception - before the Empire, its order, the universe itself that he knew, might collapse, destroyed just by the selfishness and wickedness, from which its dominator, the Human Empire, had been born and which it was no longer capable of controlling, of ruling? Destroyed in the collapse, under the rubble of the lopsided tower constructed by it to scale the stars?
So then ... if it was so ... no, no ... if ... if it was possible, or perhaps probable ... very probable... highly probable... or maybe... maybe practically certain... that it was so, in this case, should he really think, should he believe, as, much less perceptibly and knowingly, he had previously thought and postulated, that he was observing, scrutinizing, perusing, the hope, the only hope there could be for the Empire? For its destiny? And consequently for the universe where he was born, that he wanted to continue to exist? On pain of the darkness of the disarray? The Empire for which he did not know alternatives, was not able to imagine alternatives!
Yeah, he wasn't able to. But, and if there was some alternative? If there was the possibility, the hope, for a different Empire?
After all, they had seen that there was another universe, where that word, that thing, from what he had been able to pick up from the incredulous and contemptuous chattering of those who had had access to the data base of the vessel coming from it, had the right to asylum. Maybe, well, maybe, T'Pol was not entirely wrong, maybe it could be possible to build a different world.
Sure, sure. Let's admit. But that other world, was a world without the Empire, and this was inconceivable, impossible.
And then, injustice, oppression, selfishness, wickedness, were anything but strangers to that world, to that other universe. Those others, those people who seemed people of this universe, but who were not… well, they spoke in one way, but in the finale acted in another, very similar to theirs, not to say same as theirs. The potency itself of the other ship, the one that came from the other universe, its destructive weapons, were the most obvious evidence.
That was certainly not a world without war.
Sure. However... however, apparently, from what he had heard, from what he could perceive and understand, in those others, in the fact itself that there, in the place of the Empire there was a confederation of worlds, although evidently in constant trouble - and how could it be otherwise? Without an Empire able to impose on all its own law? - …well, in them there was a desire, an aspiration, a tension to a different world.
A… a better world.
A world where could exist… love.
Oh yeah. Alright. But he, Phlox, and his travelling companions in this universe, the universe that was own of them, they were not those others; their brains, their way of life, were not those of those others, were their own; they were marked by this universe, by their universe. And... and he was not at all sure that he wanted to be different, that he wanted a different universe. Indeed, he didn't want such a universe!
He wanted to be him! Not another man! And, he was sure, none of the sons of this universe would want to be different from what he was.
Not even T'Pol! For sure!
She simply had wanted to liberate herself and her people and the other peoples - yes, this was true, although she had sought the help of non-Vulcans for obvious necessity - from the yoke of the Humans. But to do that, what had she done? She had betrayed, had deceived. She had coaxed, had acted, by the back-door, on the sleazy side of each one, also on him, and had thrown in the trash what she had used and that afterward had become no longer useful to her. Just, and above all - now Phlox was well aware of that – Tucker, to get whose help, fraudulently, she had even used herself, her body, the desire that she knew she was capable of arousing in him to then leave him to himself and his destiny.
She had behaved in the only way she knew, the only one that there could be for her, a daughter, she too, of this universe. Not of that other!
Nevertheless ... eh, nevertheless she had tried. She had attempted, had fought to seek an alternative. And she had paid. Hard. In the first person. And was still paying.
And, irony of lot, irony, wicked irony, of this wicked world, she was paying now, due to a tie, a Bond - born from her - that bound her, life and death, just to the one towards whom she had acted most badly, against whom she had committed the worst betrayal.
Tucker. Him
Yeah. Tucker. And him? Why this unsuspected double-game on his part? Why this secret alter-life, whose construction had certainly had to cost him untold efforts? What did he want? Force? Power? But he could pursue them, in the same way as all the others. He had the means to do it, the ability, intelligence, and surely he had had no shortage of opportunities.
So what? Where did he want to arrive? For what, why, had he got moving so much? Risking his life. Like now. Indeed to want to tell the whole, risking much more than his life.
Was… was he working, he too, for an alternative? Irrespective of the reasons, could it be that he, in his own way, in the only way that a man born under the sign of the Empire was able to know, along the only road he could go, the only one that could be allowed to him, was seeking, as T'Pol was doing for her and for Vulcans and for the other non-Humans by necessity, for an alternative? In his case, for an alternative to this kind of auto-destructive Empire? For … for its salvation? Could it be that he had understood the existence of such a peril? And if so, as a consequence of... of what? What could have marked his life to such an extent? That life of which, in hindsight, no one knew anything?
Phlox was unable to explain why, but the vision of Tucker's horrible scar emerged peremptorily in his mind.
And why Tucker - he, exactly he - had saved T'Pol? In what could she ever be useful to him in the dangerous game he was carrying out? Always that such an idea concerning a possible use of T'Pol in the game he was playing, had really touched upon his brain, because there was more behind this absurd behaviour on his part. Eh sure, because he had jeopardized his life to save her, and, to make her heal and recover, had saved him too, Phlox. Why all that? Because of the Bond? Okay, let's admit. But, and this was the point, the Bond could not be born without there having been on both sides - on both sides - something that would justify its formation. Now, an attraction, of course, this, there was. But there is no beard of purely physical attraction that is capable of provoking the birth of a Bond, and… of such a type of Bond.
It is needed more, much more.
It is needed ...
It had been needed that thing.
It had been needed love.
Evil, perhaps, ill, the love that can arise only in this universe made of hate.
Yet still love.
Not for nothing the Vulcan Bond was legend, to such an extent that practically no one knew of it. Not for nothing it had its roots in the distant past of Vulcan, when the Vulcans were not afraid to be who they were - brave, strong, emotional, warriors, such that if they were still so at the time of their encounter with the Humans, probably they would have known how to counter them. How much stuff had they lost, the Vulcans, in their ascent to the logic! They had lost also their roots. They had lost - in the most stupid way - even that thing.
The love.
Yeah. Just so. Although, come to think, this had happened for reasons in a sense different from those of others, perhaps… nobler, yes, that was the term; and perhaps a little of that ancient nobility had remained stuck to T'Pol, since she had felt the exigency, the unexampled will, to try to fight for freedom. Maybe it was not a case that T'Pol was a Vulcan. Indeed, to be more correct… a Vulcan of other ages. A Vulcan of legend.
Legend.
Once again this term came to the mind of the physician.
Legend. T'Pol, a Vulcan of legend. As the Bond. As what she had attempted to do. As what she had done. As what she was doing at this moment.
Legend; as the legends of a disappeared time, when the Vulcans hadn't yet ended up, they too as all the others, succumbing to this traitorous and malignant universe and to its violence. They were doubly losers, because they had lost the love for the sake of an ancient choice of life which eventually had made them fall as foolish puppets in the hands of the Humans and that in any case they had not been able to really pursue, by fragmenting in myriads of clans in perennial struggle with each other.
More and worse than how it had happened in their ancient past.
Surely, with much less fierceness. And with much less, much, much less nobility.
And without the slightest trace of love.
And so, like all the others, and before the others, they had fallen prey to the Humans.
They, the Vulcans. So clever. So skilful. So perfect. So logical.
So different from what they had been in the days where the warrior princesses of their legends had existed, beautiful and strong and brave, as T'Pol had appeared in her struggle of legend in that cage of horror.
T'Pol…
A princess of ancient times.
A warrior princess.
A princess of legend.
Phlox had never thought of her in those terms. Would never have dreamed of doing it, would not even have been capable of that.
Before.
However ...
If he thought about how she'd fought in that cage of horror, about the desperate physical force and the fortitude, the strenuous dignity, that she had showed in that predicament... well, it wasn't difficult all in all to think of her as a legendary warrior princess, indeed he was sure that this was the impression that she had given to his compatriots, who had watched her in what was supposed to be her inglorious end, and that, instead, had ended up turning into some kind of apotheosis.
And… as the warrior princesses of the ancient ages of legends, T'Pol had been able to give again life and substance to that thing; and had tied to her, inextricably, a man, a Human, who seemed even to give physical shape on his face to the evil which deforms the soul.
The soul of the Human Empire.
Of this Human Empire.
And that, perhaps, could change.
Phlox looked profoundly - pensive and amazed - into these bizarre thoughts thronging his mind.
A Human. An arrogant and scornful man of the Empire of men, tied, with his personal and concealed war, to an unveiled, disclosed, Vulcan warrior princess, who was fighting her own war. Tied to each other. Indissolubly. The Human and the Vulcan. In a common destiny in which, together, they could win, whereas, if isolated, they could only lose.
And all this because, between them, unexpectedly, incredibly, astoundingly, without even suspecting it, without even being able to conceive it, it had born thatthing.
And, together with it, thanks to it, perhaps even... even…
Phlox tried to understand, to penetrate, if he would succeed, in the heart of the whirly flickering of thoughts and feelings that assailed him, without him being able to find any way to defend himself, to shield himself from them; thoughts and feelings that he had never felt, if not, very vaguely, in his distant youth; that he would never have believed that he might have again.
Was it so powerful, that Bond?
Was it so powerful, the love?
To the point ... yes, to the point that it reverberated in some way also on him? To the point that it was able to make him feel those feelings? That sense of participation?
And could this happen even to others? Could it be that it was like a ripple on the water, which arises gentle and slight - unnoticed, unperceived - under the pressure of a light wind, almost imperceptible, but persistent, more and more high, and thus, little by little, the ripple spreads over the whole surface, until this becomes wavy, and choppy - and alive - in its entirety?
And if it was so powerful, could it be that... could it be really possible that...
The shadow of such a thought, the very faint shadow, if compared with the clear-cut clarity it was reaching now, had already touched Phlox's conscience, sluggishly and lazily coming back to life, when his brain had began to connect with each other the various tesseras of the mosaic that was proving his eyes. But now ... now ... there was a lot more in that thought, than all there could have been before.
Could it be that... that Tucker and T'Pol, together, - Together. And only together! - could be the Empire's hope?
That in them, in them both, tied to each other by the Bond, by their… their love, unknown even to them, it would lie… the Empire's destiny?
Incapable of managing, of dealing with such sensations, with such thoughts, so unfamiliar, so foreign to him, the doctor focused - focused fiercely - on the situation, on the way he had to act. He needed things more down to earth, more consistent with what he was, with the Phlox who simply wanted to live and survive.
If he had intervened, the Bond between T'Pol and Tucker, it was now evident, could get broken and T'Pol would have gone crazy, at best, or dead, at worst, which meant that, if Tucker had returned, he, Phlox, would pay the price, but also that, if Tucker did not go back, he would remain at the mercy of those Aliens. And, also in this case, he would pay the price.
If he had not intervened, T'Pol could go crazy or die, in case Tucker had died, wherever he was. And he, Phlox, would remain even in this case at the mercy of the Aliens and would be thrown out the window, just to talk soft.
But if he had not intervened and, miraculously, T'Pol had remained alive because Tucker had remained alive, then he could still nourish some hope - Hope, again hope! - to wriggle out of this derisive fate, obviously as long as the mind of T'Pol, already sorely tried by what she had gone through, was able to hold on.
Oh, really a good situation, nothing to say. But in any case things were so.
The only…yes, the only hope for him was that T'Pol could in some way, he did not know how, protect Tucker, who, it was clear, was in big trouble, but apparently - thanks to the Supreme Healer! No. Thanks to T'Pol. Thanks to this Bond of legend - not dead. At least apparently not yet.
And, to make sure things to go in this way, he could not - had not to – intervene; he had only to hope – Again! Again this word! - that the strength of Tucker ... the strength of T'Pol ... were sufficient; that the strength, good or bad, that, where everything he had fantasized in his fanciful fantasies, all in all anything but fanciful, about the past and present of the self-styled simple Chief Engineer was really true, the strength he must have had and couldn't not have even now, had its counterpart in the strength of T'Pol.
Certainly, about the fact that T'Pol's strength was great, there could be no doubt: just look at how she had been able to cope, in the spirit and body, the abhorrent fate to which she had been destined to succumb, in that cage of horror. But now she had to find in herself, and just when she had hardly started to recover from the wounds that that strenuous fight had let in her soul and in her flesh, the strength to safeguard Tucker, from a distance, and, in addition, also the strength to withstand the emotions that were so hard distressing her.
And where - consciously or unconsciously - she had succeeded in all this, she would also have to be strong enough to recover from this further, extremely powerful physical and psychological trauma.
For her own salvation, sure.
And, ultimately, also for that of him, Phlox.
A nice pile of frail…of frail hopes, there was no denying it.
But until now, incredibly, every hope, every unspoken hope, that he had seen running on the face, actions, behaviour of T'Pol, seemed to have been translated into reality.
So why not continue to hope?
Why not continue to hope that the strength of T'Pol was really so great? Or, to be more correct, that she was able to find in the strength of Tucker, if what he knew about the legendary Vulcan Bond corresponded even partially to reality, her own strength? The strength she needed? Just as Tucker himself could do? In a mutual and mysterious, unfathomable support?
It was a Bond of legend, wasn't it?
And legends have no limits.
As hope.
And so - he raised his head again – let's hope.
What he had to do was simply to stay to look at her.
And to wait.
So he did this.
He looked at T'Pol; and into her hope. And into his own
He followed the drama that was unfolding before his eyes.
The rest did not matter, could not. Like all the thoughts that had piled up in his brain in a nano-hundredth of a second.
What really mattered was what was happening in front of him.
There, before him, in the acts, gestures, expressions of T'Pol's visage, he was able to read and decipher the evolution of events, of the fight to the death that surely at that time Tucker was fighting somewhere in the universe.
And of the fight with no quarter that T'Pol was fighting there, in that room, with Tucker and for Tucker. Which was like saying for herself.
And for him, too. For the poor, unarmed doctor that he, Phlox, was.
And perhaps... for the Empire.
And now the Vulcan had changed expression again, she was appearing upset, one more time. Awfully upset.
She breathed harshly, with difficulty.
Her hands tormented the edge of her hospital gown.
She… was sobbing.
Was babbling.
Was pleading.
"Save him!"
Was pleading.
"Save him!"
Phlox lowered his head again.
Hope, hope.
Hope.
Hope, hope.
Hope.
End of chapter Ten
Hope.
It is the only thing left, when despair blackens everything.
Hope.
Of a woman.
Of a man.
Of an Empire.
Will the love of a woman be capable of giving substance to this hope?
We shall see, my friends.
We shall see.
It is the only thing left, when despair blackens everything.
Hope.
Of a woman.
Of a man.
Of an Empire.
Will the love of a woman be capable of giving substance to this hope?
We shall see, my friends.
We shall see.
HERE
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COPYRIGHT 2013 © Asso - [email protected]
COPYRIGHT 2013 © Asso - [email protected]