Archer sighed.  Again.  For the third time in three minutes.  He rubbed his eyes, then looked again at the words burning on the screen before him.

Jesus Christ.  Unbelievable.  Just unbelievable.  It was hard to accept that this could happen in this day and age, but the reports – not only from the Vulcan Security Directorate, but from everybody, including the increasingly frantic ones from the planet itself – were undeniably true.

He leaned back, laced his hands behind his head.  Should anything be done?  Could anything be done?  Those were the questions of the hour.  The Vulcans, of course, were predictably all about non-interference, but they sang that old song so often that by now it was just plain noise as far as he was concerned.  Starfleet and EarthGov were dithering and debating, and considering that everyone with an opinion was going to demand to be heard, God only knew how long it was going to take to reach a consensus of any sort.  Beside, at 100 light years away, the Sol System was safely out of reach.  No worries about frantic survivors arriving on Earth's shores any time soon.

The Andorians?  They were more concerned about their problems – perceived or otherwise – with the Vulcans to worry abut the woes of anyone else.  The Tellarites?  They weren't in much of a position to do anything, one way or another.  And the Klingons?  Well, their attitude was predictably brutal.  Blow anyone out of the sky who encroached on their territory.  A solution to the problem, yes, but a rather final one.

So if anyone were going to do anything – assuming anything could be done, that is – it would probably end up being the poor dumb naïve humans, in the guise of Enterprise and her crew.  Again.  Possibly with the help of the Vulcans, if their logical arms could be twisted hard enough.  Logically, of course.

He sighed again.  Increasingly, it seemed to him that Earth, and Enterprise in particular, was finding itself in the same unenviable position as the 21^st century UN Peacekeeping forces.  Trying to keep the peace and avoid getting their asses shot off at the same time, while everyone else sat around and offered critiques of their performance.  From a safe distance away, of course.

Well, for the time being, all of these thoughts were nothing more than that.  Thoughts.  There might not be anything anyone could do.  He sighed again.  He wasn't qualified enough as to the technical aspects of the problem to know whether this was true or not.  Considering the spotty nature of the reports received, it was possible that there wasn't enough information at present to make that determination.

He touched a toggle on his com.  "Subcommander T'Pol; Dr. Phlox – would you please report to my ready room?"

He hesitated.  By all rights, as third-in-command, Trip should be present as well.  Protocol demanded it, but all his instincts went against this, and he decided to trust his gut.  He'd discuss all of this with Trip later, in private.  After first checking with Phlox.  God knew things were going to be tough enough to begin with, without having to saddle Trip with this.  But he'd have to know, sooner or later.  He pinched the bridge of his nose.  Dammit.  Just when I thought we were well out of it.

His door buzzed.  He looked up.  "Come."

Phlox and T'Pol entered.  "You wished to see us?"  The Vulcan asked coolly.

"I did indeed.  Please sit, both of you.  We have a great deal to discuss."

*  *  *

Archer stretched on the couch, ostensibly reading, but in reality keeping an eye on the chronometer.  Thursday night.  Book Club Night.  Subcommander T'Pol had decided to take Trip's suggestion about starting one seriously.  As a result, every Thursday evening, anywhere from 10 to 25 Enterprise personnel could be found in the Mess, discussing literary works that ranged from James Joyce's Ulysses to Agatha Christie's Murder on the Orient Express.

Feeling that he was in some way responsible and therefore had an obligation, Trip had reluctantly joined, found that he enjoyed the debates and was now one of the most faithful members.

Archer smiled.  Trip had one hell of a social life.  He'd told Trip once that he hadn't realized his lover was such a social butterfly.  "As long as you don't call me Madame Butterfly," Trip had responded, "then I guess it's okay."  He smiled fondly at the recollection.  Trip could always make him laugh.

In addition to Movie Night and Book Club Night, Trip also spent a fair amount of time with his friends, most notably Malcolm Reed.  Trip was sensitive enough to realize that Malcolm was not entirely comfortable socializing in the presence of his Captain, so he and the armory officer could often be found in the Mess or Reed's quarters playing chess.  Try as he might, Trip could not convince Malcolm to play GO with him. 

Trip was also thinking of starting an inter-ship basketball league.  He had lobbied Archer to convert one of the cargo bays into a playing area.  The idea was a good one, and the Captain had been on the verge of telling the engineer to go ahead with his plans.  Now?  He suspected that shortly Trip was going to have zero interest in games.

Their door opened and Trip came in at his usual gallop.  It had taken another few months for him to regain all of his lost energy, but regain it he had.  In full.  Archer now found that he had to constantly rein the younger man in; otherwise, Trip would work himself into exhaustion.

"Hey," Trip said.  "Sorry I'm late.  But we got to arguing about – " He broke off at the look on Archer's face.  "Jon?  What's wrong?"  He came over to the couch.  "Jesus, Jon, you look like hell.  Are you all right?"

Typical, Archer mused.  Worrying about me.   He reached up, took Trip's hand.  "Sit down.  We need to talk."

"Uh, oh," said Trip.  "Am I in trouble?"

"No, nothing like that.  But please.  Sit."

*  *  *

Trip exhaled, leaned back and stared at the ceiling.  Archer carefully kept his arm around his young lover's shoulders.

"Are you sure?" Trip asked.  He then shook his head.  "Stupid question.  Of course you're sure."

"Are you okay?"

Trip tried to smile, but it was a pretty miserable effort.  "I really don't know, Jon."

Archer drew him close.  He knew that Trip's first response would be to shut down emotionally, and he was determined not to allow Trip to shut him out as well.  "I can imagine," he said gently.

Slowly, Trip relaxed into his embrace.  "I don't know," he repeated.  "I mean, I'm ashamed to say that a part of me is glad.  Can you imagine?  Glad?"  He shook his head.  "I thought I was better than that."

"You are," Archer said simply.  "But you'd have to be a saint – or at least a Vulcan – not to have feelings like that.  You were hurt, Trip.  It's only natural you'd react this way."

"But still – "

"The fact that you also feel badly about those feelings tells me just what a good person you really are."

Trip smiled very faintly at this, and Archer kissed him soberly.  "Trip.  I want you to see Phlox on a daily basis until this is over."

"Jon – "

"Please, Trip."

Trip sighed.  "If you say so."

Archer rubbed his back.  "I do.  But thank you anyway, Trip."  He gave him a hug.  "Go take a shower.  I want you in bed early tonight."

"I'm not sure I'll sleep."

"I thought you might say that.  Phlox left one of his potions for you."

Trip simply nodded, sighed again, rose, and trudged off to the shower.

Archer also rose, began to unbutton his shirt.  It had gone better than he had hoped.  He finished changing, and sat on the bedside.  He remembered T'Pol's initial comments on factionalism.  Not normal, indeed.  And now, possibly fatal as well.

His musings were interrupted by Trip, who came out of the shower clad in his pajamas, climbed into bed and lay down.

"Trip," said Archer.  "Phlox suggested that I try giving you a massage.  Might help you sleep without having to take anything.  He knows you don't like sleeping pills." He didn't add that the doctor felt that physical contact would help keep the lines of communication between them open, and maintaining such would be vital in the days ahead. 

Generally, Trip enjoyed receiving massages, just as Archer enjoyed giving them, but tonight the younger man was uncharacteristically hesitant.

"Trip?" Archer repeated.  "If you don't want to – "

Trip shook his head.  "I don't know what I want, Jon.  I'm all mixed up."

Archer smiled at him, and in his familiar gesture of affection, gently stroked his hair.  "No kidding."

Trip smiled very faintly.  "I guess it wouldn't hurt."

He lay passively, allowing Archer to unbutton his top, remove it.  The bottoms followed.  He then rolled over onto his stomach and closed his eyes.  Archer began to work on his tense neck muscles, and Trip sighed very faintly.  "I can't believe it," he told Archer.  "Who'd be crazy enough to actually use biological weapons?"

"Apparently the R'oslinga faction."

Trip sighed again as Archer continued.  "It's a mess, isn't it, Jon?"

"No kidding."

And that's an understatement, Archer thought.  Two months ago, the simmering tensions between the R'oslinga and Volasha factions had exploded into open warfare.

The cause, as was usual, had been a stupid, completely avoidable incident:  R'oslinga and Volashan troops had been feinting along their mutual border, when someone had lost his or her head and fired across that border.  A full-fledged firefight had erupted, with casualties on both sides. 

Even then, sanity might still have prevailed, but a Volashan agent working undercover in the R'oslinga household had taken it into her head during this period to wreak some extremely personal and final vengeance on the third son of Lord R'oslinga in return for the unwelcome attentions she had been forced to endure from him.

Trip could probably sympathize with her on that one, Archer thought, and that thought made him bend down and give Trip a gentle kiss.  Trip responded absently.  Archer sighed, and began working on the small of Trip's back.  Due to all the bending and crawling about Trip had to do in the course of his work in Engineering, his back muscles were always tense.  Archer again briefly wondered if he should have Trip undergo chiropractic treatment with Phlox; it might be very useful.  Although right now would certainly not be a good time to raise the subject.  Not with the mess on Tasumi.

There was no evidence that the second incident was linked in any way to the first, but Lord R'oslinga, furious at the damage to his troops and devastated at the loss of his youngest son, was not in the mood to care.  Instead, he was eager for revenge. 

Accordingly, a R'oslinga operative had polluted the Volashan water supply with a virus.  Said virus was supposedly engineered to target only the Volashans, but either sloppy work or the devious nature viruses in general, who, after all, cared little about factional politics and were also notoriously unreliable in their loyalties, had caused it to be fatal to everyone it infected.

The R'oslingas had a vaccine.  A useless vaccine, as it turned out.  Not surprising, really.  The very nature of their microbial little pet had practically guaranteed that it would mutate out of control once let out in the open and away from controlled conditions.

Things then went from bad to worse when the Volashan's contaminated water had seeped into the larger waterways on the planet.  As a result, the usually beneficent cycle of rain, evaporation and more rain became the weather of death, as the virus was literally rained down on the planet at large, and then spread at a hellishly quick pace throughout the populace.

Two months later Tasumi was practically a ghost planet.  Reading between the dry, dispassionate lines of the Vulcan reports, Archer could glimpse the horror that must have been life – and death – there.  Social structures had completely broken down.  There were riots in the streets.  Law and order was non-existent.  Social orders were gone.  Slaves had taken gruesome and personal revenges on their masters before dying themselves beside their corpses.  Survivors prowled the once-proud mansions of the factional lords and ladies, stealing whatever they could and destroying what ever they could not.  Medical care was a joke; most of the doctors and health care workers had been amongst the first to perish.  Archer remembered his history studies, reading how the Black Death had almost caused the total collapse of European society, but he had never expected to see something similar happen in modern times. 

Those who had access to off-planet ships had fled, only to find that they had become inter-stellar pariahs.  No one had any idea if this virus could jump species, but no one was taking any chances.  As a result, the survivors found themselves turned away from every planet and ship they approached.

Archer finished the backs of Trip's legs, patted him lightly on his briefs-clad rump.  "Over you go."

Trip complied, lying quietly while Archer began to slowly work on his shoulders and chest.

This was the crux of the problem facing the various governments in this sector.  What to do with the surviving Tasumi, both on-planet and off?  The planet had been summarily quarantined; no one was willing to risk contamination by making planetfall.

EarthGov had suggested that medical supplies and food could be beamed onto the planet's surface to help alleviate the suffering, but so far, the Vulcans were not convinced this would be of any lasting help, pointing out the lack of law and order would mean that the aid would probably not get to those who needed it most.

There were reports of Tasumi ships headed along the same vector as Enterprise's current course.  And if they contacted Enterprise and begged for help, what then?

If he were honest, Archer would have to admit that his first impulse would be to tell them to go to hell.  After what Trip had been put through on that planet, Archer had little love for Tasumi or its inhabitants.

Except that it was highly unlikely that any of the survivors would have been directly responsible for Trip's ordeal.  The Volashans had been, by all accounts, completely wiped out.  He supposed that one could argue that every member of a society had to share responsibility for the actions and attitudes of that society, but that was just a little too abstract and philosophical for his liking.  And was he really going to say to any survivors, someone on your planet hurt my lover, so now I'm going to hurt you?  Right.  It was attitudes like that which had started the whole sad mess in the first place.

He finished up by massaging each of Trip's feet.  "There," he said.  "Feel better?"

"A little," Trip admitted.

Archer lay beside him, took him in his arms.  "Only a little?  Well, I guess that's better than nothing."

"Sorry," Trip sighed.

"It's all right," Archer reassured him, lightly stroking his back. 

But was it?  He was worried about what all of this was going to do to Trip, and he'd be a liar if he said otherwise.  The engineer had already been put through the wringer once; now it looked like he was going to be put through it again.  All those memories that Trip had managed to come to terms with were sure as hell going to come back to haunt him.  He sighed.  Tasumi.  It was a goddamned albatross hanging around his lover's neck.  Would to God that they could both just forget the place ever existed.  Unfortunately, it looked like God wasn't going to be granting that particular wish.  He sighed.

"Jon?"  Trip's voice broke into his thoughts.

"What is it?"

"You okay?"

He smiled.  Worried about me.  Again.  And Trip thought he was a bad person.  If only he could see himself as everyone else did; he'd realize what a prize he really was.  But Trip was far too modest to ever think of himself that way.  I wish I could show him.

"I'm fine," he told his lover.  "Just thinking some long thoughts, that's all."

Trip sighed.  "You're not the only one."

"I'll bet."

"Jon?"

"What is it, Trip?"

"Would you ...  No, forget it."

"Forget what?"

"Nothing.  It's not appropriate."

"What isn't?"

Trip hesitated.  "I ..."

Archer looked at him, smiled.  "I think I know what you want.  And trust me, that's never inappropriate.  Never."

"It's just that – after everything that's happened ..."

"You need reassurance, Trip.  Nothing wrong with that.  I understand."

"You don't mind?"

"Of course not."  He kissed him gently.  "I'm more than happy to give you that, and anything else that I can."

Trip sighed.  "I'm sorry."

Archer kissed him again.  "You know, Trip," he said, "you sound as if making love to you is some god-awful chore that I'm obligated to do."

Trip looked stricken.  "I didn't mean that."

Archer began to manipulate Trip's nipples, sucking on them in the way he knew Trip liked, using his tongue to gently stimulate and pleasure him.  He stopped long enough to say, "I know you didn't."

He pulled on Trip's briefs, removed them.  Trip lay naked before him, and he paused a moment to admire his lover's body.  Even though Archer's natural inclination was towards women, he had learned to appreciate Trip's own beauty.  He drew a lingering hand across the gently muscled chest, down the flat stomach and along the slender, supple flanks.  Trip sighed and shifted.

"I'm always here for you," Archer told him.  "Just like I know you're always here for me."

Trip opened those compelling blue eyes of his, looked up at him.  "Thanks," he whispered.

Archer began to caress Trip's sex, watched as the younger man responded.  "Any time."

Trip moaned, squirmed slightly.  Archer continued his easy caresses, keeping his touch light and gentle.  Trip arched his back slightly.  "You're so good to me," he moaned.

"Why shouldn't I be?"  Archer asked, beginning to stroke Trip's erect member.  "After all, you're good to me."

Trip opened his eyes again, looking surprised.  "Really?"  He closed them as Archer tightened his grip very slightly, then opened them once more at the sound of Archer's laughter.  "What?"

"I don't believe you," Archer told him.  "You obviously have no idea how good you've been to – and for – me."  He shook his head, smiled.  "Trip.  If only you knew."

Trip sighed.  "Jon.  I'm sorry."

"Shut up.  I want you thinking about other things.  Like this."  Trip groaned in response.

He bent his head.  "Or this."  And he began working on Trip in earnest.  His lover tensed, arched his back, and began to make those faint whimpering sounds, deep in his throat, that Archer knew meant he was starting to come.

"Don't hold back," he said.  "Let yourself go, Trip."  And a moment later, Trip did.  He sighed, relaxed back down, lay quietly while Archer cleaned him.

Archer lay down again, took Trip in his arms.  "Feel better?"

"What about you?"

Archer shrugged.  "I'll let you make it up to me some other time."  He ran his hands up and down Trip's back.  "Feel better?"  He asked again. 

"Yeah.  Thanks, Jon."

"Good.  Think you could sleep now?"

"I think so.  Thanks."

Archer kissed him, pulled the covers up over them.  "My pleasure."

"I beg to differ," Trip said sleepily.

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