tli
in
entficathon
"Miracle Cure" by Sita Z (2/3)
Part II
Trip peered over the edge of the canyon. Its rocky walls stretched down into, well, maybe not a bottomless abyss, but it was at least fifty meters deep, give or take. Here and there, sharp-edged ledges protruded from the rock face, strewn with debris and overgrown with bristly bushes. On one of those ledges, about four meters below the edge, lay a prone figure, clad in a blue Starfleet uniform. Its arms and legs looked abnormally crooked and twisted out of shape. It wasn’t moving at all.
“Jeez, Malcolm!” Trip let out the breath that had automatically caught in his throat at the sight. “How ‘bout a little fake blood to make it look real? We’re testin’ your rescuin’ equipment, not filmin’ a damn horror movie! Christ!”
The “injured” man ruined the gruesome picture he was presenting by raising his head and glaring up at his rescuer. “You said you wanted to be the one to pull me up! So get on and do your job, and I’ll do mine. This is supposed to be a realistic simulation.”
“Yeah, but...” Trip trailed off. When Malcolm had disappeared over the edge of the crevasse, he had expected the Lieutenant would make himself comfortable on the ledge (which they had scanned several times to make sure it was stable), and wait until Trip came to get him. The unexpected sight of Malcolm’s motionless body stretched out on the rock had scared the shit out of him. Although, on second thought, he should have expected that Malcolm wanted to be a realistic victim. The man was nothing if not thorough.
Trip decided to waste no more time arguing, got up and went through the motions of securing the rescuing equipment. He didn’t really need to do it; Malcolm had applied it himself before he climbed down, double-checking all the ropes and carabiners. Still, in a real emergency Trip would need about five minutes to get everything in place. The rescue pulley was fastened to a sturdy tree, which they had also double-checked to make sure it wouldn’t suddenly give way and turn the pretended accident into a real one. Trip tested the rope to which the victim’s harness would be secured, then clipped on his own rope.
He glanced over the rocky edge. Sure enough, Malcolm was still stretched out on his stomach down there, looking as if he had just taken one hell of a fall.
“Comin’ down now!” Trip called, and then, because he couldn’t resist: “Don’t worry, sir, we’ll get you out of there in no time at all!”
That was for scaring the hell out of me, Trip thought, not without a certain satisfaction, as he began to climb down the rough, uneven rock face. He was sure Malcolm hadn’t done it on purpose; he had never known the man to be intentionally cruel. Stubborn and annoying as hell, yes, but not cruel. Nor, it seemed, did he bear a grudge for long. When Trip had crawled out of the tent shortly after sunrise, Malcolm had greeted him with a quiet “good morning” and a cup of freshly brewed coffee; obviously an offer of truce. Trip had accepted, and they’d gotten along fairly well since then, save for a minor disagreement over tent hygiene. Neither of them had mentioned the incident of the night before.
A few pebbles came loose under Trip’s boot and bounced down the rock face, followed by a muffled swear from below.
“Sorry,” Trip called, returning his full attention to what he was doing. If he messed up the simulation, Malcolm would have his head. Carefully, he climbed down the last few meters, making sure not to hit any more loose debris. None of those pebbles could do serious damage, but that didn’t mean Malcolm enjoyed being pelted with them.
Trip reached the ledge, and immediately knelt down next to the prone man. “Sir, can you hear me? Tell me your name if you can hear me.”
“My name is Malcolm Paul Reed, and I can hear you very well, sir,” Malcolm said, the last word underlined by one of his Looks. Trip wisely decided that it might be a good idea to cut the crap, at least for now.
He took out his scanner, running it over Malcolm and finding him, of course, in perfect health.
“Your right arm and left leg are broken, and you’ve badly sprained your right ankle.” Malcolm had chosen those injuries because they would leave the victim unable to help with the rescue. “And you’ve got quite a bump on your head,” Trip added for good measure. Who said he couldn’t be thorough, as well?
“Maybe from those rocks you kicked loose when you climbed down here,” Malcolm groused, momentarily falling out of character.
“But it’s probably the least of your worries, what with your other injuries.” That, of course, earned another glare. Fighting a grin, Trip rolled the “victim” onto his back and began to clip the pulley rope to the vest’s built-in harness. “Where’re the pain meds?” he asked, remembering belatedly that a real victim would be writhing in agony by now.
“Second pocket on the right,” Malcolm instructed. “The small hypospray.”
Trip took it out and mimed injecting its contents into Malcolm’s neck.
“Don’t forget the leg loops,” Malcolm said. “They’re in the two zipper pockets at the side.”
Trip pulled them out and secured them around Malcolm’s thighs, making sure that the harness was comfortably adjusted before he got up again.
“Gonna be a bumpy ride,” he said, eyeing the rock face. “You ready?”
Malcolm nodded.
“Okay then.” Trip grabbed the rope, bracing his feet against the ground for better leverage. “Here we go.”
He began to pull. Malcolm was lifted about half a meter off the ground, stabilized more or less by the harness and the additional leg supports. It looked uncomfortable.
“Y’okay?” Trip asked, pausing in his movements.
Malcolm nodded. “Go on.”
Trip did, hoisting him up meter by meter. It was surprisingly easy work, with the pulley acting as a lever and compensating for most of the weight. A safety catch on the rope made sure that his burden wouldn’t suddenly drop if he let go for some reason. It was a well-done piece of engineering, and Trip decided to tell Malcolm so after the simulation. At the moment, he didn’t suppose the Armory Officer would appreciate a chat. Trip was doing his best to keep the suspended man steady, but it was impossible to prevent him bumping into the rock face every now and then. If Malcolm’s arm and leg had really been broken, the trip up to the edge would have been nothing short of excruciating, pain meds or no. As it was, he only grimaced slightly whenever his knee or elbow scraped over the rock.
“Sorry,” Trip called, closing his hands on the rope for the next haul. One more and Malcolm would have reached the edge. “Almost there.”
“Wait.”
He stopped in mid movement. “What is it?”
“Drop me by a couple of meters,” Malcolm said.
Trip stared at him. “What?”
“Drop me,” Malcolm repeated impatiently. “This sort of incident has to be taken into account. I want to see if the harness can take the strain.”
“And what if it can’t?” Trip asked, wondering if that possibility had entered Malcolm’s equation at all.
“Then it’ll have to be redesigned, obviously.”
Trip couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. “Before or after your memorial service? Malcolm, you don’t seriously think I’m gonna play Free-fall Ride when you’re dangling over the edge of a damn canyon!”
“It’s an acceptable risk. Besides, I believe I’m in charge of this operation.”
Trip refused to be impressed. “Y’are, and I’m happy to follow your orders, as long as they aren’t suicidal.”
Malcolm’s glare became positively glacial. “I wasn’t aware you had suddenly become the expert on testing tactical equipment, Mr. Tucker.”
For once, Trip was not secretly tickled to hear his name wrapped in that clipped British accent. The fact that Malcolm would even suggest a reckless thing like that... well, it made him angry, just like the man’s casual disregard for his own safety. As if he were just another piece of equipment, to be tested for its endurance and cast aside if it was found lacking.
“I’m sorry, Malcolm.” Trip reached for the rope again. “I’m not gonna drop you.”
Malcolm gave no reply, maintaining an icy silence while Trip pulled him up the last one and a half meters. Once he had reached the edge, he climbed over it and disappeared out of sight, which would have been quite a feat for a man with multiple bone fractures. Obviously, the simulation was over.
Trip sighed. He had hoped their truce of this morning would last a while longer. Somehow, he seemed to be rubbing Malcolm the wrong way no matter what he said or did. The man could sulk all he wanted, though; Trip wasn’t going to be responsible for a scene in which Malcolm lay still and with twisted limbs on a rock-strewn ledge. Once had been enough, thank you very much, even if it had only been Malcolm’s idea of a realistic simulation.
Resigning to the prospect of a long and silent walk back to the campsite, Trip began his own climb towards the edge.
###
Jon was sitting on the sofa in Trip’s dorm room, his bare feet crossed at the ankles and resting on the coffee table, Porthos draped across his shoulders like a strange stole. Trip was mildly surprised; wouldn’t Starfleet have given his room to another trainee by now? And who had told Jon that beagles made good fashion accessories? But he dismissed these questions after a moment. They didn’t seem important, and besides, Jon was talking to him.
“Seems you’re all done here,” he was saying.
That was true; Trip hadn’t been in his dorm room in ages.
“I’ve got a question for you, though,” Jon continued, petting Porthos, who was no longer Porthos but a long, brown wool scarf. Trip found nothing particularly disturbing about the transformation. “Tell me, Trip, do you believe in miracles?”
Leaning forward, he tugged off the scarf, and suddenly it wasn’t a scarf any longer but a bright yellow scrunchie, the kind Natalie had used to pull back her wiry curls. It dropped to the floor and disappeared.
“Well?” the man sitting on the sofa asked. “Do you believe in them or not? Make up your mind already.”
But Trip could only look at him. The man was leaning closer closer closer, his gray eyes never leaving Trip’s, and there was a faint scent of herbs and clean skin and something entirely different, something that was driving him insane. Barely aware of what he was doing, Trip reached up to brush back a strand of chocolate brown hair....
... and opened his eyes. Squinting in the bright sunlight, he experienced a moment of disorientation on finding that he was sitting next to the burned down remains of a campfire instead of lying in his bunk on Enterprise. And it was a tree trunk pressing into his back, not the padd he had been reading the night before. He blinked, and then it came back to him: He had sat down under a palm tree to eat his lunch, and had leaned back for a moment, not to sleep but only to rest his eyes for a while. It seemed that he had fallen asleep after all. And had one hell of a weird dream. Something about hair and skin and... At that point, he noticed something else, and felt a bright heat rushing into his face. He couldn’t remember much about the dream, but it seemed that he had enjoyed it... a little too much, if the bulge in his crotch was any indication. Quickly, Trip sat up, casting a brief look around. Thank God, Malcolm was nowhere in sight. After their latest argument, the Lieutenant was disgusted enough with him, and they had, in fact, not exchanged a single word since returning to the campsite. The last thing he needed was for Malcolm to witness him growing a boner during his afternoon nap.
One hell of a weird dream, all right. He could only recall the vaguest impressions, and they all seemed to involve a familiar scent, a familiar voice... someone he knew. But for the life of him, he could not remember who it had been. Maybe Natalie, if his reaction was anything to go by.
Been a long time, Tucker, he thought ruefully, shaking his head. Things hadn’t been going so well between the two of them even before he left on Enterprise. He wasn’t sure why, only that it had probably been his fault. Natalie was a great person, kind, sweet, and she could think rings around him if she wanted. He’d been in love with all that, ecstatic that at last, a relationship seemed to be working out alright. On retrospect though, he couldn’t remember if he had ever been in love with her. If she had ever gotten under his skin the way... the way the person in the dream did. If that person even existed.
Yes, they do, a voice answered in his mind. Somehow he knew that voice, its patience-stretched-to-the-limits undertone. But he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Malcolm’s vest was missing, he noticed as he took another look around. The Lieutenant had taken it off earlier, before he sat down (at a studied distance to Trip) to take notes on a padd. Trip frowned. If the vest was gone, it meant that Malcolm had set off by himself, walking off into the forest to continue with whatever mad scenario was up next, and leaving Trip asleep under the palm tree. Damn the man. They had agreed that they wouldn’t separate, but obviously, Malcolm didn’t think it necessary to keep to an agreement when he was in a snit. For all he knew, the Armory Officer was dangling over another canyon right now, or maybe blowing himself up to see if the goddamn vest would survive the explosion. Fuming, Trip got to his feet. If Malcolm wasn’t killing himself in one of his crazy-ass simulations, then he, Trip, would finish the job. There was only so much bullshit he was going to put up with. He’d find the man, and then he’d-
... tell him that you believe in miracles, that voice spoke again. Trip frowned, shaking his head. That dream was still lingering on the periphery of his mind, and even his anger over Malcolm hadn’t quite driven it off. Nor, it seemed, had it taken care of his other little problem. Sighing, Trip sat down on the log next to the fire. Before he left to find his wayward Englishman, he’d better spend a few minutes thinking about Dr. Phlox, ballet shoes and a frilly pink tutu.
###
Trip pushed a branch out of his way, only to have another one slapping into his face. He swore under his breath. Of course, Malcolm would have chosen the thickest, prickliest underbrush to crawl through, probably to test the vest’s protective outer layer. Or maybe he doesn’t mind the branches, Trip’s mind added caustically. Not exactly the tallest man in the world, now is he.
In fact, Malcolm was quite a short guy. You’d have to bend down to kiss him.
Trip blinked, then pushed another branch out of his way. According to his scanner, Malcolm was only fifty meters ahead, in a... Trip frowned. Now that couldn’t be right.
He picked up his pace, clambering over mossy roots, his boots crunching on the carpet of dry leaves. Oh yes, he was going to give the man a piece of his mind. He had wandered through the forest for almost twenty minutes before he had picked up the Lieutenant’s bio sign, about four kilometers away from their campsite. Malcolm must have all but run to cover that distance in the short time Trip had been nodding under the tree. Why the hell did he have to be like that? Why couldn’t he just relax once in a while, give a normal answer to a normal question, not stomp off in a sulk every other minute, not drive Trip to the point where he wanted to grab him and-
Trip stopped short in his tracks. Quite suddenly, he had stepped out of the thicket to find himself on the shore of a small lake. It was surrounded by huge mangrove trees, some of their branches drooping so low that they were dragging in the bottle-green water. One of the trees had been knocked over by lightning, the blackened and burnt trunk rising from the water like a malevolent swamp creature. Its upturned roots were rotting in the shallows near the shore, filling the air with a putrid smell. The entire lake stank, like an overripe fruit left out in the sun. Trip took an instant dislike to the place.
Malcolm, he saw, hadn’t noticed him yet. The Lieutenant was treading water next to the fallen tree, one hand holding onto a charred branch. As Trip watched, Malcolm’s hand let go for the split of a second, before it grabbed hold again, clutching the dead wood like a lifeline. The expression on Malcolm’s face was one of deep, almost painful concentration. He tried to push himself away from the tree a second time, floating unaided for a moment, before his traitorous hand shot out and closed on the branch again. He closed his eyes, and Trip saw his lips moving in a silent... what? Swear? Prayer? Trip had a feeling that it didn’t make much of a difference to Malcolm, not at this moment. Whatever was happening over there, it was obviously a terrifying ordeal for the man.
You crazy, crazy Brit, Trip thought, pocketing the scanner before he began to wade into the water. He didn’t want to risk calling out to Malcolm. The man was so high-strung even under normal circumstances (which these, quite obviously, were not) that there was no telling how he would react. The water was warm, almost uncomfortably so, and smelled even worse up close. Trying not to think about the things that might be rotting under his feet, Trip waded in deeper, until the water came up to his thighs, his belly and finally his chest. Flecks of green were floating on the surface, clinging to his arms as he waded deeper still, beginning to swim. Malcolm still hadn’t noticed him, continuing his strange dance of pushing away from the tree and returning to it as if pulled back by an invisible rope.
“Malcolm,” Trip said when he was about two arm lengths away from the man. “Malcolm, what the hell are you doing?”
He had expected that his voice would startle Malcolm. What he had not expected was the pure, unadulterated terror on Malcolm’s face as he turned to look at him. He had never seen the man like that, hadn’t even thought him capable of such an expression. Not calm, stoic Lieutenant Reed.
“Malcolm!” He crossed the last meter in one quick stroke, grabbing Malcolm’s arm. The muscles beneath the wet fabric were hard as rock. Malcolm stared at him, his eyes glassy with... fear? It was fear, Trip realized, a fear that had nothing to do with him or his sudden appearance. The fear was what had kept Malcolm here, what had pulled him back to the dead tree every time he tried to move away.
“I... I thought... I could d-do it,” he whispered. “I... I got this far, and then...”
“It’s okay,” Trip said, holding onto the tree himself while he carefully wrapped an arm around Malcolm’s shoulders. “It’s okay now. Let’s get you outta here.”
“No!” Malcolm’s hands clutched at the branches, his knuckles turning white with strain. “I... I can’t.”
“Malcolm,” Trip said. “You can’t stay here. C’mon, let’s go.”
Malcolm looked at him, and Trip had the impression that only now Malcolm had actually become aware of his presence.
“I’ll decide when the simulation’s over,” he said, and to Trip’s immense relief, his voice had returned to something approaching his normal, clipped tones. “I thought I had made myself clear on that.”
“What, you simulatin’ someone havin’ a panic attack in a frog pond?” he countered, drawling his words in a way that was sure to drive Malcolm crazy. It had the intended effect; Malcolm’s mouth became a thin line, his eyes flashing angrily. He pushed himself away from the tree, shrugging out of Trip’s grip, and this time, the invisible rope did not yank him back.
“As you would know if you had paid even the slightest bit of attention during the briefing, the vest has a built-in flotation collar,” Malcolm spat, his arms parting the water with furious strokes as he swam towards the shore. “I was testing its buoyancy, and yes Commander, I deliberately neglected to wake you from your little nap to join me. I estimated the simulation would be more efficient if you were not present.”
They had reached the shore by now, wading out of the water. Once they were standing on solid ground, Malcolm turned around, dripping wet and furious.
Madder than a wet hen, Trip thought, and a small chuckle escaped him, out of nervousness more than anything else. It had a devastating effect on Malcolm. For a second, raw hurt flashed in his eyes, only to be fiercely suppressed a moment later. Malcolm’s entire body seemed to go rigid, and he spoke without looking at Trip.
“I realize that this only confirms your opinion of me, Commander.”
Trip stared at him. “What?”
Malcolm’s eyes shifted, and finally came to rest on him. Trip’s stomach churned at the carefully concealed pain he saw there.
“Do you really believe I don’t know? I’m not that dense, Commander. I know you cannot respect me as a person, for... for what I am. You’ve made that quite clear.” He straightened his back, taking a deep breath before he continued. “The only thing I would like to ask of you is to accept that I’m capable of doing my job. I worked very hard to gain my position, as did you and everyone else on Enterprise. Please respect that, even if you can’t respect me.”
Trip’s mouth was “catching flies”, as his momma would have said, but he could no more have closed it than he could have asked Malcolm what the hell he was talking about. Malcolm’s words seemed to have frozen him in place, leaving him unable to do anything but stare dumbly at the man. Malcolm held his gaze for another second, then abruptly turned away. Trip watched, still unable to move, as Malcolm turned and walked away, his wet boots leaving dark footprints on the sand. He held himself upright, almost unnaturally so, like someone fighting very hard to keep the shreds of his dignity in place. Trip wanted to go after him, but he could see that it would only make matters worse. Malcolm’s words had held a bitter resignation he did not understand, and which Malcolm would not explain to him if he asked.
He stood there for a long time, not sure if he was waiting for Malcolm to come back, his uniform to dry, a hole to open under his feet and swallow him, or none of the above. Malcolm did not come back, and finally, Trip began to walk, pushing through the underbrush, not caring about the branches slapping his face.
When he arrived at the campsite half an hour later, he wasn’t surprised to find it deserted.
------------------------ **** ------------------------------
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It was raining; a furious, lashing rainstorm, the kind Trip remembered from home. As a kid, he’d often stayed on the indoor porch when there was a storm raging outside, snuggled under a blanket and watching in awe as the wind tore at the palm trees. Sometimes, Lizzie or one of his brothers had joined him. They would sit on the couch and sip hot chocolate, savoring the secret thrill of knowing that there was only a pane of glass between them and the madness outside. If they wanted to, they could always leave the safety of the porch and run out into the howling wind, getting drenched before they even ventured beyond the wooden steps. Of course, they never did. You’d have to be nuts to go out in weather like that.
Completely nuts, Trip thought. Rain was pounding on the outer tent as if someone were pelting it with small pebbles. Each new gush of wind made the canvas flap violently, but the tent held fast, as if nailed to the ground. Trip listened to the cracking and snapping of the exploding raindrops, watched as the flashlight he had tied to the ceiling swung gently back and forth, the bright halo of light flitting across the interior of the tent.
Yes, you had to be crazy as a soup sandwich not to seek shelter when it was raining like that. Of course, that was a requirement fully met by the man who was currently out there, drowning himself in the lake again for all Trip knew. Nothing Malcolm said or did could surprise him anymore, not after this afternoon’s incident. He still didn’t understand what Malcolm had been doing in the water, no more than he understood the naked fear he had seen on the man’s face, or the things Malcolm had said back on the shore.
I know you can’t respect me as a person.
It simply wasn’t true. Trip respected the Armory Officer, admired him on occasion, and had no doubt in his mind that there was no one better suited than Malcolm Reed when it came to protecting Enterprise. Okay, so he liked to tease him. Maybe he sometimes went too far, made a nuisance of himself, but Malcolm gave as good as he got, didn’t he? And whenever the Englishman fired off another caustic remark, Trip was secretly tickled to have the man’s full, undivided attention, if only for a moment. He enjoyed those moments, and had assumed that Malcolm did, too. Trip didn’t understand how he could have misread the man in such a fundamental way. Hell, he’d even thought they could become friends. He’d thought-
A clap of thunder shook the air, making him jump. Malcolm was crazy, he was nuts, he was completely insane to stay out there. The charred tree back at the lake had been evidence enough of the damage lightning storms could do in this part of the woods. And if Malcolm had really decided to undergo another simulation... he might be in serious trouble. Images crowded in Trip’s mind, and he quickly pushed them away, digging in his backpack. Malcolm hadn’t answered his communicator this afternoon, had probably been too busy drowning himself. And he hadn’t tried to contact Trip since. Now, however... well, one of them would have to swallow his pride, and Trip knew that he better not wait for Malcolm to take the first step. The Lieutenant would not call, even if he did run into trouble out there. Not because of a childish sulk, but because he, Trip, had hurt the other man in a deep, unforgivable way. He had no idea what he had done, but it had been obvious in the way Malcolm had looked at him, back there on the shore of the lake.
Trip took out his communicator and flipped it open. He was going to call Malcolm and apologize; their talk could wait until later. All he wanted right now was for Malcolm to come back, period. Even if it meant apologizing for something he could not remember doing wrong.
He was just about to open a channel to Malcolm’s communicator when he noticed that the familiar crackle of static was missing. Frowning, he recalibrated the device, but was met by dead silence on all frequencies.
The storm, he thought, sorely tempted to fling his communicator into a corner of the tent. The magnetic fields from the lightning were scattering his signal, meaning that he was cut off - from Malcolm, who might or might not be in trouble out there, and from the crew on the ship, who could have scanned for the man to make sure he was okay. Meaning he had to sit here and wait until the storm let up, sit here and worry until he knew Malcolm was all right. At that point, Trip did fling his communicator onto his sleeping bag. If this was Malcolm’s way of getting him back, it was working. Trip couldn’t stand the idea of him getting hurt. Stretched out on that rock ledge, the man had looked... small, almost fragile. It was not a word Trip would usually associate with the Armory Officer; under normal circumstances, he would have laughed if anyone had used it to describe tough, imperturbable Lieutenant Reed. But he had seen it for himself when Malcolm had played “victim”, and also back at the lake. That look in his eyes... as if Trip had ripped out his heart and tossed it into the garbage disposal. Trip didn’t understand it, not one bit. He’d trodden on people’s toes before without meaning to, but he never crossed the invisible line between banter and viciousness. At least he thought he didn’t. But then again, his judgment had always left a lot to be desired where Malcolm was concerned.
Another clap of thunder broke through the steady drumming of the rain. Trip sighed. He couldn’t just sit on his ass and wait, either for the storm to be over or Malcolm to come back. He knew that neither was going to happen any time soon.
Grabbing his backpack again, he dug out two rain coats, one of which he pulled over his head. It wasn’t going to keep him dry, not when it was pouring like this, but it might offer some protection all the same. Those raindrops sounded as if they were being shot out of some old-fashioned gun, rather than merely falling from the sky. Sighing, Trip untied the flashlight and began to unzip the tent flap. Oh yes, he was going to get drenched.
###
Trip had never hated water as much as he did now. It was everywhere; lashing into his face, drenching his uniform (the raincoat was about as much use as a paper hat), sloshing around in his boots, soaking him from top to toe. Even his underwear was wet, water running down his back and into the crack of his ass. It felt like being sprayed down with a fire hose, except that he could have tried to get away from the madman aiming the hose at him. There was no way to escape the unrelenting sheets of rain.
It was dark all around him, the only noise being the steady roar of the rain and the occasional clap of thunder. The water seemed to be coming from all sides, the trees offering hardly any protection. Maybe there was a madman out here, some malicious deity who controlled the weather and got a real laugh out of his waterlogged appearance. I bet there is, he thought, clutching the flashlight as he continued his slow, arduous progress through the underbrush. If he had thought that his earlier walk through woods had been unpleasant, he’d had another thing coming. This was a dark and wet hell, and not what he’d had in mind when they had left the ship. A camping trip! As if. Somehow, this had turned into a succession of forced marches, dangling over rocky crevasses and getting drenched in tropical rainstorms. Maybe stuff like that was Malcolm’s idea of a good time, but it sure as hell wasn’t Trip’s.
His boot caught on something, and he stumbled, grabbing for a nearby tree. Unable to see much of anything, he clutched at thin air, and next thing he knew, found himself face first in a puddle of mud.
“Goddammit!” He spat, disgusted by the rotten, tepid smell. The flashlight had fallen out of his hand and rolled away, and he almost slipped again as he picked it up. Thank God it was waterproof. If it had gone out...
“Trip?”
The voice was faint and quite far away, and for a second, he wondered if his ears were starting to play tricks on him. He’d called out for Malcolm time and again, but there had been no answer, only the sound of rain pelting the trees. Then, he heard it again, louder this time.
“Trip, are you there?”
“Malcolm?” His voice shook a little, from exhaustion or maybe from the overwhelming relief that flooded him at the sound of Malcolm calling his name. For the last hour or so, he had indulged in a silent rant, his apology long forgotten as he stumbled through the thicket, getting wetter and angrier by the minute. He had had a fine speech ready, beginning with a caustic observation on Malcolm’s state of mind, and continuing with a few choice comments on nutty weapons experts and obnoxious Brits in general. He had just been adding the finishing touches when his boot got caught on that root. Now, he could hardly remember a word of it. Climbing over water-slicked roots and ignoring the wet branches that were slapping into his face, he hurried into the direction from which the voice had come. He didn’t need a biosign to confirm what he already knew. Malcolm was somewhere over there, and thanks to all the gods and guardian angels that protected stubborn Tactical Officers, he seemed to be okay.
“Malcolm?” Trip ducked under the branches of a mangrove, the halo of his flashlight darting over the underbrush. “Malcolm, where are you? You okay?”
”I’m over here,” Malcolm’s voice said quite close by, and Trip followed it with the flashlight. And stopped short.
“Gawd, Malcolm.”
The man was crouched under a tree, as wet as if he’d just come out of a lake. His hair was slicked against his head, thin rivulets of water running down his cheeks like tears. In his trembling hands, he was holding the utility match, the one he’d presented at the briefing.
“It d-doesn’t work,” he managed between chattering teeth. “I’ve been trying to... light it, but it won’t g-go on.”
Trip had never seen anyone look so miserable. Malcolm must have been here for hours, drenched, shivering and unhappy, trying to light that damn thing just so he would have a reason for staying out here. Trip’s throat tightened at the thought. Sitting down next to Malcolm, he gently took the match out of the man’s cold, clammy hands.
“The power cell’s probably gotten wet.”
“But it was designed to function in a wet environment,” Malcolm said, his voice catching on the last word. “It shouldn’t give out that easily.”
He reached for the match again, but Trip placed his hand on Malcolm’s, stilling the movement.
“It’s okay,” he said quietly. “There’re bound to be some hiccups, right? That’s why we’re here, to take care of them.”
Malcolm stared down at their joined hands. “The design’s faulty,” he whispered. “I should have-“
“Should’ve nothin’,” Trip cut off the self-recrimination that was sure to follow, and because he didn’t know what else to do, wrapped his arms around the shivering man and pulled him close. Malcolm offered no resistance.
“It’s not a faulty design.” He rubbed his hands over Malcolm’s back, feeling small tremors running through the man’s body, knowing that it wasn’t only the cold or the rain. “It’s probably just a minor malfunction; maybe the case is leakin’ somewhere. Happens all the time.”
Warm breath tickled his neck, and Trip felt hands slipping around his waist, hesitantly, unsure if they were welcome or not. Malcolm was hugging him back, in the clumsy, awkward fashion of someone not used to physical contact.
Don’t got lots of experience hugging people, do you, Trip thought, and didn’t let go even when he felt his friend trying to move away again. Instead, he brought up a hand and pulled Malcolm’s head against his shoulder, his mouth almost touching the other man’s ear.
“Whaddaya say we go back to the campsite and dry off a little, and then I’ll have a look at the match. Maybe I can figure out what’s wrong.” Malcolm nodded and Trip tightened the hug. “Then let’s get goin’, shall we? If we stay here much longer, we’re gonna look like a pair of drowned rats.”
Malcolm leaned back, a small smile on his lips as he looked at Trip. “I’d say we already do.”
Trip laughed softly. “You’re probably right.”
He helped Malcolm to his feet. Knowing that it would not make much of a difference, he still wrapped the spare raincoat around his shoulders, and pulled up the hood for him. The intimacy of the gesture felt completely natural, and Trip didn’t even think about it as he reached out to gently wipe the raindrops off Malcolm’s cheeks. Malcolm, who would always keep a safe distance between himself and others, who would oh-so-inconspicuously edge away on his chair when Trip was standing next to him on the bridge, let it happen, didn’t even flinch away when Trip’s hand lingered on his face.
“I’m glad I found you,” Trip said softly. “I was worried.”
Malcolm glanced down. “I’m sorry.”
There was nothing sullen about his reply, no trace of haughtiness or cool dismissal. Something, it seemed, had changed just now, something Trip couldn’t quite put his finger on. It had to do with him not yelling at Malcolm, and Malcolm’s quiet apology, as if Trip had a right to it... a right to him. It was a strange thought. Trip wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“C’mon,” he said, smiling as he pulled his hand back. “I know a nice place down the road where they might take us in.”
Malcolm’s mouth twitched. “I do hope they’ve got indoor accommodations.”
Trip grinned, pointing the flashlight ahead. “Well, I can’t promise king-sized beds and a heated Jacuzzi, but I’d say we check it out all the same.”
“I won’t miss the Jacuzzi,” Malcolm muttered from behind. “I’ve had about enough soaking, thank you very much.”
Trip nodded emphatically. “Let’s go.”
Onto Part III
Trip peered over the edge of the canyon. Its rocky walls stretched down into, well, maybe not a bottomless abyss, but it was at least fifty meters deep, give or take. Here and there, sharp-edged ledges protruded from the rock face, strewn with debris and overgrown with bristly bushes. On one of those ledges, about four meters below the edge, lay a prone figure, clad in a blue Starfleet uniform. Its arms and legs looked abnormally crooked and twisted out of shape. It wasn’t moving at all.
“Jeez, Malcolm!” Trip let out the breath that had automatically caught in his throat at the sight. “How ‘bout a little fake blood to make it look real? We’re testin’ your rescuin’ equipment, not filmin’ a damn horror movie! Christ!”
The “injured” man ruined the gruesome picture he was presenting by raising his head and glaring up at his rescuer. “You said you wanted to be the one to pull me up! So get on and do your job, and I’ll do mine. This is supposed to be a realistic simulation.”
“Yeah, but...” Trip trailed off. When Malcolm had disappeared over the edge of the crevasse, he had expected the Lieutenant would make himself comfortable on the ledge (which they had scanned several times to make sure it was stable), and wait until Trip came to get him. The unexpected sight of Malcolm’s motionless body stretched out on the rock had scared the shit out of him. Although, on second thought, he should have expected that Malcolm wanted to be a realistic victim. The man was nothing if not thorough.
Trip decided to waste no more time arguing, got up and went through the motions of securing the rescuing equipment. He didn’t really need to do it; Malcolm had applied it himself before he climbed down, double-checking all the ropes and carabiners. Still, in a real emergency Trip would need about five minutes to get everything in place. The rescue pulley was fastened to a sturdy tree, which they had also double-checked to make sure it wouldn’t suddenly give way and turn the pretended accident into a real one. Trip tested the rope to which the victim’s harness would be secured, then clipped on his own rope.
He glanced over the rocky edge. Sure enough, Malcolm was still stretched out on his stomach down there, looking as if he had just taken one hell of a fall.
“Comin’ down now!” Trip called, and then, because he couldn’t resist: “Don’t worry, sir, we’ll get you out of there in no time at all!”
That was for scaring the hell out of me, Trip thought, not without a certain satisfaction, as he began to climb down the rough, uneven rock face. He was sure Malcolm hadn’t done it on purpose; he had never known the man to be intentionally cruel. Stubborn and annoying as hell, yes, but not cruel. Nor, it seemed, did he bear a grudge for long. When Trip had crawled out of the tent shortly after sunrise, Malcolm had greeted him with a quiet “good morning” and a cup of freshly brewed coffee; obviously an offer of truce. Trip had accepted, and they’d gotten along fairly well since then, save for a minor disagreement over tent hygiene. Neither of them had mentioned the incident of the night before.
A few pebbles came loose under Trip’s boot and bounced down the rock face, followed by a muffled swear from below.
“Sorry,” Trip called, returning his full attention to what he was doing. If he messed up the simulation, Malcolm would have his head. Carefully, he climbed down the last few meters, making sure not to hit any more loose debris. None of those pebbles could do serious damage, but that didn’t mean Malcolm enjoyed being pelted with them.
Trip reached the ledge, and immediately knelt down next to the prone man. “Sir, can you hear me? Tell me your name if you can hear me.”
“My name is Malcolm Paul Reed, and I can hear you very well, sir,” Malcolm said, the last word underlined by one of his Looks. Trip wisely decided that it might be a good idea to cut the crap, at least for now.
He took out his scanner, running it over Malcolm and finding him, of course, in perfect health.
“Your right arm and left leg are broken, and you’ve badly sprained your right ankle.” Malcolm had chosen those injuries because they would leave the victim unable to help with the rescue. “And you’ve got quite a bump on your head,” Trip added for good measure. Who said he couldn’t be thorough, as well?
“Maybe from those rocks you kicked loose when you climbed down here,” Malcolm groused, momentarily falling out of character.
“But it’s probably the least of your worries, what with your other injuries.” That, of course, earned another glare. Fighting a grin, Trip rolled the “victim” onto his back and began to clip the pulley rope to the vest’s built-in harness. “Where’re the pain meds?” he asked, remembering belatedly that a real victim would be writhing in agony by now.
“Second pocket on the right,” Malcolm instructed. “The small hypospray.”
Trip took it out and mimed injecting its contents into Malcolm’s neck.
“Don’t forget the leg loops,” Malcolm said. “They’re in the two zipper pockets at the side.”
Trip pulled them out and secured them around Malcolm’s thighs, making sure that the harness was comfortably adjusted before he got up again.
“Gonna be a bumpy ride,” he said, eyeing the rock face. “You ready?”
Malcolm nodded.
“Okay then.” Trip grabbed the rope, bracing his feet against the ground for better leverage. “Here we go.”
He began to pull. Malcolm was lifted about half a meter off the ground, stabilized more or less by the harness and the additional leg supports. It looked uncomfortable.
“Y’okay?” Trip asked, pausing in his movements.
Malcolm nodded. “Go on.”
Trip did, hoisting him up meter by meter. It was surprisingly easy work, with the pulley acting as a lever and compensating for most of the weight. A safety catch on the rope made sure that his burden wouldn’t suddenly drop if he let go for some reason. It was a well-done piece of engineering, and Trip decided to tell Malcolm so after the simulation. At the moment, he didn’t suppose the Armory Officer would appreciate a chat. Trip was doing his best to keep the suspended man steady, but it was impossible to prevent him bumping into the rock face every now and then. If Malcolm’s arm and leg had really been broken, the trip up to the edge would have been nothing short of excruciating, pain meds or no. As it was, he only grimaced slightly whenever his knee or elbow scraped over the rock.
“Sorry,” Trip called, closing his hands on the rope for the next haul. One more and Malcolm would have reached the edge. “Almost there.”
“Wait.”
He stopped in mid movement. “What is it?”
“Drop me by a couple of meters,” Malcolm said.
Trip stared at him. “What?”
“Drop me,” Malcolm repeated impatiently. “This sort of incident has to be taken into account. I want to see if the harness can take the strain.”
“And what if it can’t?” Trip asked, wondering if that possibility had entered Malcolm’s equation at all.
“Then it’ll have to be redesigned, obviously.”
Trip couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. “Before or after your memorial service? Malcolm, you don’t seriously think I’m gonna play Free-fall Ride when you’re dangling over the edge of a damn canyon!”
“It’s an acceptable risk. Besides, I believe I’m in charge of this operation.”
Trip refused to be impressed. “Y’are, and I’m happy to follow your orders, as long as they aren’t suicidal.”
Malcolm’s glare became positively glacial. “I wasn’t aware you had suddenly become the expert on testing tactical equipment, Mr. Tucker.”
For once, Trip was not secretly tickled to hear his name wrapped in that clipped British accent. The fact that Malcolm would even suggest a reckless thing like that... well, it made him angry, just like the man’s casual disregard for his own safety. As if he were just another piece of equipment, to be tested for its endurance and cast aside if it was found lacking.
“I’m sorry, Malcolm.” Trip reached for the rope again. “I’m not gonna drop you.”
Malcolm gave no reply, maintaining an icy silence while Trip pulled him up the last one and a half meters. Once he had reached the edge, he climbed over it and disappeared out of sight, which would have been quite a feat for a man with multiple bone fractures. Obviously, the simulation was over.
Trip sighed. He had hoped their truce of this morning would last a while longer. Somehow, he seemed to be rubbing Malcolm the wrong way no matter what he said or did. The man could sulk all he wanted, though; Trip wasn’t going to be responsible for a scene in which Malcolm lay still and with twisted limbs on a rock-strewn ledge. Once had been enough, thank you very much, even if it had only been Malcolm’s idea of a realistic simulation.
Resigning to the prospect of a long and silent walk back to the campsite, Trip began his own climb towards the edge.
###
Jon was sitting on the sofa in Trip’s dorm room, his bare feet crossed at the ankles and resting on the coffee table, Porthos draped across his shoulders like a strange stole. Trip was mildly surprised; wouldn’t Starfleet have given his room to another trainee by now? And who had told Jon that beagles made good fashion accessories? But he dismissed these questions after a moment. They didn’t seem important, and besides, Jon was talking to him.
“Seems you’re all done here,” he was saying.
That was true; Trip hadn’t been in his dorm room in ages.
“I’ve got a question for you, though,” Jon continued, petting Porthos, who was no longer Porthos but a long, brown wool scarf. Trip found nothing particularly disturbing about the transformation. “Tell me, Trip, do you believe in miracles?”
Leaning forward, he tugged off the scarf, and suddenly it wasn’t a scarf any longer but a bright yellow scrunchie, the kind Natalie had used to pull back her wiry curls. It dropped to the floor and disappeared.
“Well?” the man sitting on the sofa asked. “Do you believe in them or not? Make up your mind already.”
But Trip could only look at him. The man was leaning closer closer closer, his gray eyes never leaving Trip’s, and there was a faint scent of herbs and clean skin and something entirely different, something that was driving him insane. Barely aware of what he was doing, Trip reached up to brush back a strand of chocolate brown hair....
... and opened his eyes. Squinting in the bright sunlight, he experienced a moment of disorientation on finding that he was sitting next to the burned down remains of a campfire instead of lying in his bunk on Enterprise. And it was a tree trunk pressing into his back, not the padd he had been reading the night before. He blinked, and then it came back to him: He had sat down under a palm tree to eat his lunch, and had leaned back for a moment, not to sleep but only to rest his eyes for a while. It seemed that he had fallen asleep after all. And had one hell of a weird dream. Something about hair and skin and... At that point, he noticed something else, and felt a bright heat rushing into his face. He couldn’t remember much about the dream, but it seemed that he had enjoyed it... a little too much, if the bulge in his crotch was any indication. Quickly, Trip sat up, casting a brief look around. Thank God, Malcolm was nowhere in sight. After their latest argument, the Lieutenant was disgusted enough with him, and they had, in fact, not exchanged a single word since returning to the campsite. The last thing he needed was for Malcolm to witness him growing a boner during his afternoon nap.
One hell of a weird dream, all right. He could only recall the vaguest impressions, and they all seemed to involve a familiar scent, a familiar voice... someone he knew. But for the life of him, he could not remember who it had been. Maybe Natalie, if his reaction was anything to go by.
Been a long time, Tucker, he thought ruefully, shaking his head. Things hadn’t been going so well between the two of them even before he left on Enterprise. He wasn’t sure why, only that it had probably been his fault. Natalie was a great person, kind, sweet, and she could think rings around him if she wanted. He’d been in love with all that, ecstatic that at last, a relationship seemed to be working out alright. On retrospect though, he couldn’t remember if he had ever been in love with her. If she had ever gotten under his skin the way... the way the person in the dream did. If that person even existed.
Yes, they do, a voice answered in his mind. Somehow he knew that voice, its patience-stretched-to-the-limits undertone. But he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Malcolm’s vest was missing, he noticed as he took another look around. The Lieutenant had taken it off earlier, before he sat down (at a studied distance to Trip) to take notes on a padd. Trip frowned. If the vest was gone, it meant that Malcolm had set off by himself, walking off into the forest to continue with whatever mad scenario was up next, and leaving Trip asleep under the palm tree. Damn the man. They had agreed that they wouldn’t separate, but obviously, Malcolm didn’t think it necessary to keep to an agreement when he was in a snit. For all he knew, the Armory Officer was dangling over another canyon right now, or maybe blowing himself up to see if the goddamn vest would survive the explosion. Fuming, Trip got to his feet. If Malcolm wasn’t killing himself in one of his crazy-ass simulations, then he, Trip, would finish the job. There was only so much bullshit he was going to put up with. He’d find the man, and then he’d-
... tell him that you believe in miracles, that voice spoke again. Trip frowned, shaking his head. That dream was still lingering on the periphery of his mind, and even his anger over Malcolm hadn’t quite driven it off. Nor, it seemed, had it taken care of his other little problem. Sighing, Trip sat down on the log next to the fire. Before he left to find his wayward Englishman, he’d better spend a few minutes thinking about Dr. Phlox, ballet shoes and a frilly pink tutu.
###
Trip pushed a branch out of his way, only to have another one slapping into his face. He swore under his breath. Of course, Malcolm would have chosen the thickest, prickliest underbrush to crawl through, probably to test the vest’s protective outer layer. Or maybe he doesn’t mind the branches, Trip’s mind added caustically. Not exactly the tallest man in the world, now is he.
In fact, Malcolm was quite a short guy. You’d have to bend down to kiss him.
Trip blinked, then pushed another branch out of his way. According to his scanner, Malcolm was only fifty meters ahead, in a... Trip frowned. Now that couldn’t be right.
He picked up his pace, clambering over mossy roots, his boots crunching on the carpet of dry leaves. Oh yes, he was going to give the man a piece of his mind. He had wandered through the forest for almost twenty minutes before he had picked up the Lieutenant’s bio sign, about four kilometers away from their campsite. Malcolm must have all but run to cover that distance in the short time Trip had been nodding under the tree. Why the hell did he have to be like that? Why couldn’t he just relax once in a while, give a normal answer to a normal question, not stomp off in a sulk every other minute, not drive Trip to the point where he wanted to grab him and-
Trip stopped short in his tracks. Quite suddenly, he had stepped out of the thicket to find himself on the shore of a small lake. It was surrounded by huge mangrove trees, some of their branches drooping so low that they were dragging in the bottle-green water. One of the trees had been knocked over by lightning, the blackened and burnt trunk rising from the water like a malevolent swamp creature. Its upturned roots were rotting in the shallows near the shore, filling the air with a putrid smell. The entire lake stank, like an overripe fruit left out in the sun. Trip took an instant dislike to the place.
Malcolm, he saw, hadn’t noticed him yet. The Lieutenant was treading water next to the fallen tree, one hand holding onto a charred branch. As Trip watched, Malcolm’s hand let go for the split of a second, before it grabbed hold again, clutching the dead wood like a lifeline. The expression on Malcolm’s face was one of deep, almost painful concentration. He tried to push himself away from the tree a second time, floating unaided for a moment, before his traitorous hand shot out and closed on the branch again. He closed his eyes, and Trip saw his lips moving in a silent... what? Swear? Prayer? Trip had a feeling that it didn’t make much of a difference to Malcolm, not at this moment. Whatever was happening over there, it was obviously a terrifying ordeal for the man.
You crazy, crazy Brit, Trip thought, pocketing the scanner before he began to wade into the water. He didn’t want to risk calling out to Malcolm. The man was so high-strung even under normal circumstances (which these, quite obviously, were not) that there was no telling how he would react. The water was warm, almost uncomfortably so, and smelled even worse up close. Trying not to think about the things that might be rotting under his feet, Trip waded in deeper, until the water came up to his thighs, his belly and finally his chest. Flecks of green were floating on the surface, clinging to his arms as he waded deeper still, beginning to swim. Malcolm still hadn’t noticed him, continuing his strange dance of pushing away from the tree and returning to it as if pulled back by an invisible rope.
“Malcolm,” Trip said when he was about two arm lengths away from the man. “Malcolm, what the hell are you doing?”
He had expected that his voice would startle Malcolm. What he had not expected was the pure, unadulterated terror on Malcolm’s face as he turned to look at him. He had never seen the man like that, hadn’t even thought him capable of such an expression. Not calm, stoic Lieutenant Reed.
“Malcolm!” He crossed the last meter in one quick stroke, grabbing Malcolm’s arm. The muscles beneath the wet fabric were hard as rock. Malcolm stared at him, his eyes glassy with... fear? It was fear, Trip realized, a fear that had nothing to do with him or his sudden appearance. The fear was what had kept Malcolm here, what had pulled him back to the dead tree every time he tried to move away.
“I... I thought... I could d-do it,” he whispered. “I... I got this far, and then...”
“It’s okay,” Trip said, holding onto the tree himself while he carefully wrapped an arm around Malcolm’s shoulders. “It’s okay now. Let’s get you outta here.”
“No!” Malcolm’s hands clutched at the branches, his knuckles turning white with strain. “I... I can’t.”
“Malcolm,” Trip said. “You can’t stay here. C’mon, let’s go.”
Malcolm looked at him, and Trip had the impression that only now Malcolm had actually become aware of his presence.
“I’ll decide when the simulation’s over,” he said, and to Trip’s immense relief, his voice had returned to something approaching his normal, clipped tones. “I thought I had made myself clear on that.”
“What, you simulatin’ someone havin’ a panic attack in a frog pond?” he countered, drawling his words in a way that was sure to drive Malcolm crazy. It had the intended effect; Malcolm’s mouth became a thin line, his eyes flashing angrily. He pushed himself away from the tree, shrugging out of Trip’s grip, and this time, the invisible rope did not yank him back.
“As you would know if you had paid even the slightest bit of attention during the briefing, the vest has a built-in flotation collar,” Malcolm spat, his arms parting the water with furious strokes as he swam towards the shore. “I was testing its buoyancy, and yes Commander, I deliberately neglected to wake you from your little nap to join me. I estimated the simulation would be more efficient if you were not present.”
They had reached the shore by now, wading out of the water. Once they were standing on solid ground, Malcolm turned around, dripping wet and furious.
Madder than a wet hen, Trip thought, and a small chuckle escaped him, out of nervousness more than anything else. It had a devastating effect on Malcolm. For a second, raw hurt flashed in his eyes, only to be fiercely suppressed a moment later. Malcolm’s entire body seemed to go rigid, and he spoke without looking at Trip.
“I realize that this only confirms your opinion of me, Commander.”
Trip stared at him. “What?”
Malcolm’s eyes shifted, and finally came to rest on him. Trip’s stomach churned at the carefully concealed pain he saw there.
“Do you really believe I don’t know? I’m not that dense, Commander. I know you cannot respect me as a person, for... for what I am. You’ve made that quite clear.” He straightened his back, taking a deep breath before he continued. “The only thing I would like to ask of you is to accept that I’m capable of doing my job. I worked very hard to gain my position, as did you and everyone else on Enterprise. Please respect that, even if you can’t respect me.”
Trip’s mouth was “catching flies”, as his momma would have said, but he could no more have closed it than he could have asked Malcolm what the hell he was talking about. Malcolm’s words seemed to have frozen him in place, leaving him unable to do anything but stare dumbly at the man. Malcolm held his gaze for another second, then abruptly turned away. Trip watched, still unable to move, as Malcolm turned and walked away, his wet boots leaving dark footprints on the sand. He held himself upright, almost unnaturally so, like someone fighting very hard to keep the shreds of his dignity in place. Trip wanted to go after him, but he could see that it would only make matters worse. Malcolm’s words had held a bitter resignation he did not understand, and which Malcolm would not explain to him if he asked.
He stood there for a long time, not sure if he was waiting for Malcolm to come back, his uniform to dry, a hole to open under his feet and swallow him, or none of the above. Malcolm did not come back, and finally, Trip began to walk, pushing through the underbrush, not caring about the branches slapping his face.
When he arrived at the campsite half an hour later, he wasn’t surprised to find it deserted.
------------------------ **** ------------------------------
------------------------ **** ------------------------------
It was raining; a furious, lashing rainstorm, the kind Trip remembered from home. As a kid, he’d often stayed on the indoor porch when there was a storm raging outside, snuggled under a blanket and watching in awe as the wind tore at the palm trees. Sometimes, Lizzie or one of his brothers had joined him. They would sit on the couch and sip hot chocolate, savoring the secret thrill of knowing that there was only a pane of glass between them and the madness outside. If they wanted to, they could always leave the safety of the porch and run out into the howling wind, getting drenched before they even ventured beyond the wooden steps. Of course, they never did. You’d have to be nuts to go out in weather like that.
Completely nuts, Trip thought. Rain was pounding on the outer tent as if someone were pelting it with small pebbles. Each new gush of wind made the canvas flap violently, but the tent held fast, as if nailed to the ground. Trip listened to the cracking and snapping of the exploding raindrops, watched as the flashlight he had tied to the ceiling swung gently back and forth, the bright halo of light flitting across the interior of the tent.
Yes, you had to be crazy as a soup sandwich not to seek shelter when it was raining like that. Of course, that was a requirement fully met by the man who was currently out there, drowning himself in the lake again for all Trip knew. Nothing Malcolm said or did could surprise him anymore, not after this afternoon’s incident. He still didn’t understand what Malcolm had been doing in the water, no more than he understood the naked fear he had seen on the man’s face, or the things Malcolm had said back on the shore.
I know you can’t respect me as a person.
It simply wasn’t true. Trip respected the Armory Officer, admired him on occasion, and had no doubt in his mind that there was no one better suited than Malcolm Reed when it came to protecting Enterprise. Okay, so he liked to tease him. Maybe he sometimes went too far, made a nuisance of himself, but Malcolm gave as good as he got, didn’t he? And whenever the Englishman fired off another caustic remark, Trip was secretly tickled to have the man’s full, undivided attention, if only for a moment. He enjoyed those moments, and had assumed that Malcolm did, too. Trip didn’t understand how he could have misread the man in such a fundamental way. Hell, he’d even thought they could become friends. He’d thought-
A clap of thunder shook the air, making him jump. Malcolm was crazy, he was nuts, he was completely insane to stay out there. The charred tree back at the lake had been evidence enough of the damage lightning storms could do in this part of the woods. And if Malcolm had really decided to undergo another simulation... he might be in serious trouble. Images crowded in Trip’s mind, and he quickly pushed them away, digging in his backpack. Malcolm hadn’t answered his communicator this afternoon, had probably been too busy drowning himself. And he hadn’t tried to contact Trip since. Now, however... well, one of them would have to swallow his pride, and Trip knew that he better not wait for Malcolm to take the first step. The Lieutenant would not call, even if he did run into trouble out there. Not because of a childish sulk, but because he, Trip, had hurt the other man in a deep, unforgivable way. He had no idea what he had done, but it had been obvious in the way Malcolm had looked at him, back there on the shore of the lake.
Trip took out his communicator and flipped it open. He was going to call Malcolm and apologize; their talk could wait until later. All he wanted right now was for Malcolm to come back, period. Even if it meant apologizing for something he could not remember doing wrong.
He was just about to open a channel to Malcolm’s communicator when he noticed that the familiar crackle of static was missing. Frowning, he recalibrated the device, but was met by dead silence on all frequencies.
The storm, he thought, sorely tempted to fling his communicator into a corner of the tent. The magnetic fields from the lightning were scattering his signal, meaning that he was cut off - from Malcolm, who might or might not be in trouble out there, and from the crew on the ship, who could have scanned for the man to make sure he was okay. Meaning he had to sit here and wait until the storm let up, sit here and worry until he knew Malcolm was all right. At that point, Trip did fling his communicator onto his sleeping bag. If this was Malcolm’s way of getting him back, it was working. Trip couldn’t stand the idea of him getting hurt. Stretched out on that rock ledge, the man had looked... small, almost fragile. It was not a word Trip would usually associate with the Armory Officer; under normal circumstances, he would have laughed if anyone had used it to describe tough, imperturbable Lieutenant Reed. But he had seen it for himself when Malcolm had played “victim”, and also back at the lake. That look in his eyes... as if Trip had ripped out his heart and tossed it into the garbage disposal. Trip didn’t understand it, not one bit. He’d trodden on people’s toes before without meaning to, but he never crossed the invisible line between banter and viciousness. At least he thought he didn’t. But then again, his judgment had always left a lot to be desired where Malcolm was concerned.
Another clap of thunder broke through the steady drumming of the rain. Trip sighed. He couldn’t just sit on his ass and wait, either for the storm to be over or Malcolm to come back. He knew that neither was going to happen any time soon.
Grabbing his backpack again, he dug out two rain coats, one of which he pulled over his head. It wasn’t going to keep him dry, not when it was pouring like this, but it might offer some protection all the same. Those raindrops sounded as if they were being shot out of some old-fashioned gun, rather than merely falling from the sky. Sighing, Trip untied the flashlight and began to unzip the tent flap. Oh yes, he was going to get drenched.
###
Trip had never hated water as much as he did now. It was everywhere; lashing into his face, drenching his uniform (the raincoat was about as much use as a paper hat), sloshing around in his boots, soaking him from top to toe. Even his underwear was wet, water running down his back and into the crack of his ass. It felt like being sprayed down with a fire hose, except that he could have tried to get away from the madman aiming the hose at him. There was no way to escape the unrelenting sheets of rain.
It was dark all around him, the only noise being the steady roar of the rain and the occasional clap of thunder. The water seemed to be coming from all sides, the trees offering hardly any protection. Maybe there was a madman out here, some malicious deity who controlled the weather and got a real laugh out of his waterlogged appearance. I bet there is, he thought, clutching the flashlight as he continued his slow, arduous progress through the underbrush. If he had thought that his earlier walk through woods had been unpleasant, he’d had another thing coming. This was a dark and wet hell, and not what he’d had in mind when they had left the ship. A camping trip! As if. Somehow, this had turned into a succession of forced marches, dangling over rocky crevasses and getting drenched in tropical rainstorms. Maybe stuff like that was Malcolm’s idea of a good time, but it sure as hell wasn’t Trip’s.
His boot caught on something, and he stumbled, grabbing for a nearby tree. Unable to see much of anything, he clutched at thin air, and next thing he knew, found himself face first in a puddle of mud.
“Goddammit!” He spat, disgusted by the rotten, tepid smell. The flashlight had fallen out of his hand and rolled away, and he almost slipped again as he picked it up. Thank God it was waterproof. If it had gone out...
“Trip?”
The voice was faint and quite far away, and for a second, he wondered if his ears were starting to play tricks on him. He’d called out for Malcolm time and again, but there had been no answer, only the sound of rain pelting the trees. Then, he heard it again, louder this time.
“Trip, are you there?”
“Malcolm?” His voice shook a little, from exhaustion or maybe from the overwhelming relief that flooded him at the sound of Malcolm calling his name. For the last hour or so, he had indulged in a silent rant, his apology long forgotten as he stumbled through the thicket, getting wetter and angrier by the minute. He had had a fine speech ready, beginning with a caustic observation on Malcolm’s state of mind, and continuing with a few choice comments on nutty weapons experts and obnoxious Brits in general. He had just been adding the finishing touches when his boot got caught on that root. Now, he could hardly remember a word of it. Climbing over water-slicked roots and ignoring the wet branches that were slapping into his face, he hurried into the direction from which the voice had come. He didn’t need a biosign to confirm what he already knew. Malcolm was somewhere over there, and thanks to all the gods and guardian angels that protected stubborn Tactical Officers, he seemed to be okay.
“Malcolm?” Trip ducked under the branches of a mangrove, the halo of his flashlight darting over the underbrush. “Malcolm, where are you? You okay?”
”I’m over here,” Malcolm’s voice said quite close by, and Trip followed it with the flashlight. And stopped short.
“Gawd, Malcolm.”
The man was crouched under a tree, as wet as if he’d just come out of a lake. His hair was slicked against his head, thin rivulets of water running down his cheeks like tears. In his trembling hands, he was holding the utility match, the one he’d presented at the briefing.
“It d-doesn’t work,” he managed between chattering teeth. “I’ve been trying to... light it, but it won’t g-go on.”
Trip had never seen anyone look so miserable. Malcolm must have been here for hours, drenched, shivering and unhappy, trying to light that damn thing just so he would have a reason for staying out here. Trip’s throat tightened at the thought. Sitting down next to Malcolm, he gently took the match out of the man’s cold, clammy hands.
“The power cell’s probably gotten wet.”
“But it was designed to function in a wet environment,” Malcolm said, his voice catching on the last word. “It shouldn’t give out that easily.”
He reached for the match again, but Trip placed his hand on Malcolm’s, stilling the movement.
“It’s okay,” he said quietly. “There’re bound to be some hiccups, right? That’s why we’re here, to take care of them.”
Malcolm stared down at their joined hands. “The design’s faulty,” he whispered. “I should have-“
“Should’ve nothin’,” Trip cut off the self-recrimination that was sure to follow, and because he didn’t know what else to do, wrapped his arms around the shivering man and pulled him close. Malcolm offered no resistance.
“It’s not a faulty design.” He rubbed his hands over Malcolm’s back, feeling small tremors running through the man’s body, knowing that it wasn’t only the cold or the rain. “It’s probably just a minor malfunction; maybe the case is leakin’ somewhere. Happens all the time.”
Warm breath tickled his neck, and Trip felt hands slipping around his waist, hesitantly, unsure if they were welcome or not. Malcolm was hugging him back, in the clumsy, awkward fashion of someone not used to physical contact.
Don’t got lots of experience hugging people, do you, Trip thought, and didn’t let go even when he felt his friend trying to move away again. Instead, he brought up a hand and pulled Malcolm’s head against his shoulder, his mouth almost touching the other man’s ear.
“Whaddaya say we go back to the campsite and dry off a little, and then I’ll have a look at the match. Maybe I can figure out what’s wrong.” Malcolm nodded and Trip tightened the hug. “Then let’s get goin’, shall we? If we stay here much longer, we’re gonna look like a pair of drowned rats.”
Malcolm leaned back, a small smile on his lips as he looked at Trip. “I’d say we already do.”
Trip laughed softly. “You’re probably right.”
He helped Malcolm to his feet. Knowing that it would not make much of a difference, he still wrapped the spare raincoat around his shoulders, and pulled up the hood for him. The intimacy of the gesture felt completely natural, and Trip didn’t even think about it as he reached out to gently wipe the raindrops off Malcolm’s cheeks. Malcolm, who would always keep a safe distance between himself and others, who would oh-so-inconspicuously edge away on his chair when Trip was standing next to him on the bridge, let it happen, didn’t even flinch away when Trip’s hand lingered on his face.
“I’m glad I found you,” Trip said softly. “I was worried.”
Malcolm glanced down. “I’m sorry.”
There was nothing sullen about his reply, no trace of haughtiness or cool dismissal. Something, it seemed, had changed just now, something Trip couldn’t quite put his finger on. It had to do with him not yelling at Malcolm, and Malcolm’s quiet apology, as if Trip had a right to it... a right to him. It was a strange thought. Trip wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“C’mon,” he said, smiling as he pulled his hand back. “I know a nice place down the road where they might take us in.”
Malcolm’s mouth twitched. “I do hope they’ve got indoor accommodations.”
Trip grinned, pointing the flashlight ahead. “Well, I can’t promise king-sized beds and a heated Jacuzzi, but I’d say we check it out all the same.”
“I won’t miss the Jacuzzi,” Malcolm muttered from behind. “I’ve had about enough soaking, thank you very much.”
Trip nodded emphatically. “Let’s go.”
Onto Part III