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“Well, Ambassador Huval, if you’re satisfied Starfleet’s arbitration protocols might offer an acceptable basis to begin discussions with the Kaltan delegation, I’ll have my First Officer transmit the full document to your government for final approval.”
His jaw, Jonathan Archer was convinced, would crack at any minute. In lifting the corner of one jagged eyebrow, the representative of the Holtar Territories at least gave his first sign of life in two excruciating hours.
If he was sick of the sound of the alien captain’s voice he wouldn’t be alone. Having talked himself hoarse, the man himself was no longer sure whether he was counselling moderation in a trade dispute between neighbouring star systems or suggesting the Holtar sell their children into slavery.
A sidelong glance confirmed his security detail was both conscious and, apparently, paying meticulous attention to proceedings. Anybody but Malcolm Reed, Archer was certain, would have been face-down on the table an hour ago.
“Please, Captain, my government have given me sole authority. Have the protocols transmitted directly to me.”
There wasn’t anything else to do, Archer concluded , fumbling the communicator from his pocket in a manner guaranteed to increase his already considerable embarrassment, but hail T’Pol on the bridge and give the order. “If you’d like time to consider the protocols more fully, Ambassador…”
“You are kind, Captain.” As if a glacier was thawing the ice receded from the enormous alien’s silvery eyes. “Allow me to summon refreshments for your party.”
“Thank you, Ambassador. I don’t know how Malcolm feels, but I could use a cold drink.” Two officers did not a party make, but relief was making Archer giddy. “And – could I ask for some water for my dog?”
His head protruding between the feet of his master’s chair, Porthos twitched a floppy ear. Slowly, with an audible creak, Huval’s fleshy lips pulled up into an unmistakable smile.
“Of course, dear friend. May I enquire, what do you call your beast? It is carnivorous?”
“His name’s Porthos, Ambassador, and technically I guess he is, but beagles will eat pretty much anything put in front of them.” The animal as ice-breaker. Admiral Forrest might not approve, but Archer figured he’d make his dog a mandatory member of every away team from now on.
“May I…” Meat-platter palm already extended toward the velvety head, Huval hesitated. Porthos did not.
With a definite whine of appreciation he climbed to his paws and butted the wavering limb. “Be my guest,” Archer agreed ruefully. The whole marble structure seemed to shake with the giant Holtar’s delighted shout, his ruddy countenance transfigured to that of an over-excited child.
“You, sentry! Fetch water and meat for the noble beast and good mead for our guests! Send for Madrin! Advise their Eminences matters proceed to mutual satisfaction!”
He thought he heard a disbelieving echo of “mutual!” over his left shoulder but resolutely Archer ignored it, urging Porthos closer to his new friend. His tail lashing enthusiastically the beagle needed no encouragement and the ambassador sank onto his haunches, both hands busying themselves down the small dog’s back and flanks. “Such fine markings,” Huval exclaimed, a stubby finger tracing the patterns of liver and black. “Such an eye! Are these creatures common on your world, Captain? Does every gentleman possess one?”
“The beagle’s a common breed, Ambassador, but I’d say Porthos is pretty unique.” He sounded like a besotted daddy. Archer didn’t need to spot the marginal flaring of his shipmate’s nostrils to realise it.
“Please, my friend – my name is Huval. Ah, refreshments!”
A troop of huge Holtar girls squeezed through an entrance even a burly human struggled to negotiate with dignity, the first bearing large silver jugs, the next a salver of fruit and the next three deep bowls and steaming meat plates which were laid at the paws of a delighted beagle.
Last of all came a woman who, Archer reflected even as he winced from his unkindness, alone among the Holtar he had encountered so far deserved to be called – almost – pretty. Across her brawny forearms lay a large fleecy cushion, and atop the cushion reclined the daintiest, most heart-melting little ball of puffy cream fur any human had ever seen.
“Madrin, my dearest!” Practically cooing, the ambassador lumbered to vertical to retrieve the fluffball, which squealed ecstatically and wriggled forward to lap at its master’s pitted face. “Captain – Lieutenant – allow me to introduce my wisest and most trusted friend!”
So saying, he deposited the creature amid the sweet herbs that carpeted the floor. In retrospect, Archer considered, it was the first diplomatic faux-pas committed that day.
The second followed swiftly. Portho’s button nose twitched. His tail came up. A low, keening hum escaped his lily-white throat.
The ambassador’s friend matched it. For Captain Jonathan Archer, Earth’s foremost emissary to the galaxy, time slowed to a crawl as he watched disaster unfolding before him.
Porthos lunged. Madrin leapt. Before a human or Holtar muscle could be moved both dogs were bolting through the wide-open door and out into the endless woods beyond, their ecstatic yaps rebounding until they sounded like a hundred pairs of amorous hounds.
Archer looked helpless. Huval looked horrified. Reed bit his lip.
“Oops,” he offered.
The tension within the isolated structure shattered like a dry branch. “Or something like that,” Archer snickered. “Ambassador if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go chase down my dog.”
Huval’s console sang out. The big alien’s craggy features tightened.
“It would be most inconvenient; I may require explanation as to the precise terminology used by your species in diplomacy...”
As Archer goggled and a line of Holtar servants gawked, Malcolm Reed stepped forward with the trepidation of a man approaching an unmarked minefield. “Captain. Request permission to withdraw, sir.”
The weight rolling off his shoulders momentarily made Jonathan Archer feel as tall as his hosts. “Thanks, Malcolm,” he breathed before turning to the bewildered ambassador. “Lieutenant Reed will go catch Porthos, with your agreement – Huval,” he continued, hesitating just enough for courtesy before the name. The Holtar’s shaggy head cocked.
“The beast will obey another master?” he asked. Archer grinned.
“He’s more likely to obey Malcolm than he is me; he’s got me wrapped around his paw and he knows it.”
While their hosts went cross-eyed trying to translate the human expression, Reed cleared his throat. “I’ll have the randy little stoat back in no time, sir,” he said.
He was through the door and halfway to the tree line before he realised his words had only added to Holtar confusion. “I thought you called the creature a bugle!” Huval wailed.
Archer pinned on a smile and made a swift internal count to ten. “It’s a figure of speech, Ambassador,” he said through gritted teeth. “Umm, so – if you’re happy to start on the protocols...”
*
In fifteen minutes they clarified two sentences. Not only did Archer wish he’d gone chasing a pair of lovesick hounds through the woods, he suspected Huval did too.
The tentative tap of knuckles on the half-closed door made both men jerk of their seats. “Come!”
“Master, a storm is approaching.” The woman who hovered on the threshold, despite her dun gown and scraped-back hair, was young, with an air of vibrancy about her solid features. Huval’s froze into passivity.
“My good Captain, I must advise that you return to your vessel directly,” he grated, the words forced out between his tombstone teeth. “At this season the northern continent is prone to violent electrical storms. If you intend to retire to your ship, it would be wise to go now.”
Archer was upright before realisation struck. “My officer – and my dog,” he stumbled, peering past his hosts toward a menacing charcoal coloured sky that seemed to be possessing the treetops opposite. “If they’re in any danger...”
“Our storms are intense, but of short duration,” Huval assured him hastily. “The noble beast – and your man – will take no harm in the forest, and you have my word: the very instant transportation can be safely achieved, both will be returned to your ship. In the meantime, with your consent, I will report the substance of our discussions to my sovereigns.”
It was polite, but Jonathan Archer knew a dismissal when he heard on. Wearily he plucked the communicator from his pocket and flipped it open. “I’d be grateful to have Porthos and Malcolm back as soon as possible, Ambassador,” he said tiredly, cutting off the torrent of Holtar speech the best way he knew how.
“Archer to Enterprise. One to transport.”
“One, Captain?”
The voice was T’Pol’s, just edged with doubt. Archer ground his teeth.
“Yes, one. Archer out.”
The last thing he saw as Holtar faded away was the puzzlement on the face of his host. Which was, he decided when Enterprise re-formed around him, a damned sight better than the truculent curiosity he faced from the other side of the transporter console.
“Blame Porthos,” he growled, out of the door before the Chief Engineer could blurt his inevitable question.
Until Malcolm and that damn dog were back, the captain of the Enterprise was going to hide in his ready room. And anyone who didn’t like it, he added grimly as the door slid reassuringly shut behind him, could be like being busted down to crewman!
*
Five minutes. Ten. Twenty.
All pretence at work was abandoned. Archer sprawled in his chair, fingers tapping out an erratic rhythm against his thigh. How long was short duration to a Holtar?
Thirty minutes. Thirty-five.
He hauled himself upright. Straightened the row of sketches along the wall. Sat back down.
Thirty-seven minutes. He was never taking Porthos anywhere again. Not ever.
Thirty-nine.
Forty. Forty-one.
So focussed was he on listening for the comm. that its first faint crackle almost had him on the ceiling. “Archer,” he choked.
“Captain.” It wasn’t often he wanted to kiss T’Pol but her complete refusal to be interested in his reaction put the idea suddenly, shockingly, into his head. “We’re being hailed. The away team is standing by.”
Away team. A pissed-off Englishman and an over-sexed beagle. He couldn’t wait to tell Starfleet Command that one, but at least that wild urge to smooch his Vulcan officer had dissolved. “I’m on my way,” he said tersely, ignoring the smirking ensigns at the forward stations on his way across the bridge.
“We’re locked on, Sir,” Crewman Molloy announced from the transporter controls, as if it was something he should be proud of. Biting off the irritable retort Archer composed himself into his best attempt at captainly dignity and nodded.
“Energise.”
The familiar greenish sparkle filled the transporter bay. Maintaining command dignity suddenly became a whole lot more difficult.
Even before the energy beam released the man Archer could see water dripping into a puddle around his fastidious armoury officer’s muddy boots. As it cleared he observed the sodden dark hair, usually so perfectly groomed, plastered straight to the skull; the rivulets running the length of a straight nose; the slow ooze of liquid through a uniform reputedly unsoakable; and the bedraggled, downcast dog pressing muddy paws and a moss-stained nose into his captor’s stiff neck.
“Permission to come aboard, Sir?”
The impressions had crowded in on him over a few milliseconds before the bone-dry British voice fragmented them. “Be my guest, Lieutenant,” Archer chuckled, feeling the silent scream of Crewman Molloy at the sight of rainwater dripping off his pristine transporter pad hit the back of his neck. “Umm, maybe I should take my dog back?”
“Feel free.” More liquid squelched out of his ruined boots as Reed stepped gingerly onto deck level, and in his grimace Jonathan Archer saw all the discomfort that strict military bearing tried to deny while cold water seeped between heavy-duty patented Starfleet fabric and delicate British skin. Porthos whined.
“You’re a very bad dog,” Archer chided as the animal was offered his way, holding him at arms’ length until the little beagle’s paws added to the mess on the floor. “You could’ve caused a diplomatic incident; and just look what you’ve done to Malcolm.”
Porthos fixed the dripping Englishman with downcast eyes. His tail dropped. He whined again.
“Oh, don’t be daft, you great soft pup,” Reed exclaimed, droplets spraying all around as he bent from the hip to scratch the beagle’s ear. “He was a bugger to get hold of, Captain: like a bar of wet soap at the bottom of the bath, but don’t let Huval pin anything on him. That Madrin’s a shameless hussy: wouldn’t leave the boy alone. Erm, d’ you mind if I go and change now?”
“Take the rest of the day off, Lieutenant.” Instinct brought the man’s name to Jonathan’s tongue, but long experience of his armoury officer’s foibles forced it back. “I’m going to ask for a recess before we start serious negotiation anyway. Porthos – heel!”
“If you’re quite sure, sir…” As he caught sight of himself in the gleaming bulkhead, Reed’s mild protest trailed off. “That is, thank you, Captain. The ambassador was most apologetic.”
Archer acknowledged the hint with a grunt, holding his tongue until the bedraggled Englishman was out of sight. Then, with a steely look that dared his crewman to smirk, he leaned over the man’s console and smacked open the comm. “Archer to Trip.”
“Tucker.”
There was just enough urgency in the name to confirm Jonathan’s hunch; somebody else had been pacing a confined space hard enough to wear a groove in the plating. “Are you off-duty?”
There was a muffled snort as the Chief Engineer just stopped himself being rude to his commanding officer. “Good. Then disconnect the timer on your shower and get some towels warmed up. You’re going to need both in – about two minutes.”
“Aw, hell.” The exclamation burst out of the middle of an explosive guffaw. “That bad, huh?”
Archer frowned down at the filthy, dripping hound snuggling into his calf. “Let’s just say I’m not the only one with a wet puppy to care for tonight,” he announced, while Crewman Molloy all but choked himself in the corner. “And I’m suggesting to the Holtar that we continue negotiations here tomorrow! You’ve got about twenty seconds, Commander. Archer out!”
The last thing he heard before the line died was the hiss of a door and the horrified beginning of a familiar Floridian expostulation. “Sonofa…”