Summary: Malcolm finds himself in the Mirror universe, hemmed on all sides by a familiar yet depraved crew, and a Major who renounces every moral that has shaped his life.
Disclaimer: If I did own Enterprise, Malcolm would have been made first officer... or at least there would have been more Reed-Centric episodes. Sadly, I own nothing and they're not even paying me for writing this trifling fic.
All mistakes are my own
.
.
.
Hoshi once eluded to a space of lost time. She spoke of unaccountable days spent on the Enterprise; invisible; intangible; helpless while the travesty of her death unwound around her. At the time they had laughed. Imagine, the anxiety of a mere storm creating a lifelike parody that even included the degeneration of Hoshi's cellular matter, and espionage by unintelligible aliens.
Now, sprawled against the wall in engineering, as a familiar ensign in MACO uniform points a particle rifle at his heart, Malcolm is beginning to believe her story.
"What does your badge represent?"
"What is your faction?"
"Where do you come from?"
"What is your name?"
"Who else wears this uniform?"
"What are they looking for?"
"How did you get on board?"
"What is your name?"
"What is your faction?"
"Where do you hail from?"
"Who are you?"
The captain of the Enterprise - Forrester, he's learned that much - heads the interrogation. It's not critical to answer him. Not yet. Forrester has yet to resort to blows, and Malcolm can easily distract himself just by looking around the room. This isn't his Enterprise. The uniforms are wrong: braided; proper; starched to a proper, stiff quality, without wear or ease in the fabric that makes the crew feel comfortable wearing it even while on holiday. The badges are tainted. Even the symbol of the Enterprise alludes to violence, rather than the honor of discovery and exploration.
The ship's officers are as cryptic and brassy as their uniforms. Malcolm recognizes the First Officer without fail. He would have followed him without question - had done so in the past - on the Enterprise he knows. But the Jonathan Archer towering behind Forrester is not his captain. Just as the MACO sergeant is a cold shadow of Ensign Mayweather. And the leader of the MACO corp... mercy above, is that himself? Smug and posh, hovering like a crouched panther, waiting to sink his jowls into the first unfortunate creature that the captain tosses his way. Is this a delusion of his mind, warping the good and just into inhumane monstrosities, or is it a vision of what could have been?
"Major." Seething, Captain Forrester steps aside, nodding for the other Reed to step forth. "Care to explain the resemblance?"
Malcolm has occasionally heard that his face incents perfect strangers to challenge him to a bar fight, but he's never understood the expression... until now. Right now he wishes he could paste the major and his nasty, prim smile. He grits his teeth, frost against ice, and isn't all that surprised when Major Reed's eyes begin to gleam.
"I've never seen him in my life," Reed says. He steps forward, inspecting Malcolm like one who is deciding whether or not to squash a wasp against the pavement. "Perhaps he's from the first officer's theoretical universe?"
The mockery in his tone seems to needle Archer. Harsh circumstances have transpired recently. Malcolm can see the lines of pain in both officers, and feel the animosity radiating under a thin stream of loyalty.
Captain Forrester laughs. "An alternate universe? No such thing exists. He's either a spy or a shoddy clone sent to sabotage my mission. Can you speak, Major? Or is it Ensign? Your uniform doesn't suit up to the Empire's standards."
"I can make him talk," Reed says confidently; as smooth as a black mamba drifting from the branches overhead. Malcolm keeps his eyes on Archer. Corrupted universe or not, he is compelled to trust this man.
Stirring uncomfortably under the attention, the first officer steps forward. "Captain, if I might suggest," he says coolly, "Major Reed has a habit of damaging his victims beyond sensibility. Perhaps a few hours in the booth will loosen this man's tongue."
As quickly as hope arose, it crashes in Malcolm's heart. This is not his captain. This officer - callously condemning another being to the madness of this vessel - is not the Jonathan Archer of the Enterprise. He doesn't know what evil manifestation has taken Archer's place.
He does know that he has every reason to be afraid.
Section 31 has accustomed Malcolm to pain. He knows that at some point the nerves in the body will be overwhelmed, and the mind will simply shut down and create its own vortex of peace. He's been trained to reach that point on his own, without overstimulation, and it's served him well on several missions - most notably when he was strapped to the hull of the Enterprise with an armed mine perforating his leg.
This time, he can't think long enough to reach the void at all. His doppleganger looks on with maniac glee as he adjusts nobs and dials, racking nerves from Malcolm's skull to the bottoms of his feet. Never the same place twice. Always to the point where he thinks he will black out, before the location changes and he's grappling with a new form of anguish. It's his hands one moment, crippling him from his fingertips to his shoulder blades; then his spine, flinging him against the sides of the glass case as he tries to black out. His head is pierced under a catalyst of exploding stars, before the pain moves again and he rakes his arms against the glass as a second, then a third bundle of nerves is targeted.
How many nerve clusters are there in the body? He's learning the answer intimately. How many hours in a day? Ten thousand, his wavering mind tells him. Time has stretched into a cruel limbo, controlled by the devious face of his counterpart and the cheery observation of a Denobulan physician. Once, agitated by the therapy required for his skewered leg, Malcolm accused Phlox of delighting in his patients' torment. Now he begs forgiveness for his numpty behavior. The good doctor never evoked pain, except to heal, and he never would have condoned with a torture device being employed onboard the Enterprise. Eccentric, unflappable, emphasizing the same regard for a Klingon's life as for Starfleet's crewmen, Phlox deserves more credit than a reputation as a quack with a bloodsucking eel.
The trails of fire shut off abruptly. Every nerve seems to melt into Malcolm's bones, and his hands tingle with the sensation of a cold rain as he braces himself against the glass. Pitilessly, Captain Forrester watches him gather his fractured composure.
"You certainly have the same gameface," Forrester says nonchalantly. "It took six hours for the major to start pounding on the glass."
Malcolm's eyes flicker to Reed, catching the MACO officer's subtle flinch. So, the Enterprise subjects even her own crew to torture. What heinous crime has Reed committed, to deserve a round at the machine he vindictively employs?
Probably nothing, Malcolm muses. There's a rigid tension on the ship that he sensed all during the march from engineering to the brig. Every officer is one curt order short of shooting another crewmate.
"It's been three hours, Rebel," Forrester says, stepping closer to the booth. "I suggest you consider answering a few questions. Let's start with your name."
Malcolm's first instinct is to lie. He's good at that; no one leaves Section 31 without picking up a few tricks. Since the incident with the Klingons he's been trying to drop the habit, however, and he's not sure he'll sound believable if the first officer joins the chat. He can't bring himself to lie to Archer again, no matter the universe.
Another option is to egg Forrester on. That's easy enough; everyone on this Enterprise seems to have a short fuse. Trip once said that he could talk an Andorian into shooting his brains out (although he never clarified who would suffer the ruptured skull - Malcolm or the Andorian). Outwitting the captain will take a great deal of finagling, however, and he might let something slip without realizing the consequences on this world. Major Reed has already spoken of an "alternate universe." The less anyone knows about Malcolm's Enterprise, the better.
Thus, it appears that silence is his only recourse. Rubbing his aching hands, he raises himself to attention and shakes his head. Scoffing, Major Reed slinks up to the glass and measures him with a cool glance. "You have no idea what's coming, do you?"
His ignorance lasts only seconds.
"How long has he been in there?" Striding up to the booth, Archer peers inquisitively at the prisoner, indifferent to every stifled cry forced between gritted teeth.
"Six hours, thirteen minutes," Phlox says. "Isn't it remarkable how they try not to scream. I think he's drawn more blood with his thrashing than any other specimen we've tested. I do believe he's trying to break the glass."
"He wouldn't be the first." Ten hours in the booth might have garnered a weaker man some shred of compassion for the battered, writhing prisoner before him, but Jonathan Archer has no such weakness. "Has he said anything at all?"
"A few select curses. Several recitations of 'The Seafarer' - it's quite the lengthy poem."
"Anything useful?" Archer interjects. The man has been in there for six hours. Tucker was babbling about his loyalties within five minutes.
"Not even his name," Phlox replies.
"Then change the frequency. Klingons have a higher pain tolerance, am I right?"
Huffing, Phlox protests, "Klingons have a vastly different physiology than Terrans, First Officer. And might I mention that I have my orders from the captain."
The loss of command is a vicious reminder; one that gives Archer half a mind to toss the Denobulan into his own contraption. Resting his fist against the booth, he tilts his head and watches the rebel scrabble, favoring one limb until the frequency alters and he scrabbles at the flaring nerves in his lower back. He's as tough as Major Reed, but there's something keeping him intact that the major lacks. Something is keeping him going, allowing him to endure the pain.
"Did he say what his faction is?" Archer wonders, propping his elbow on the glass. Who is this man? If this is the result of a parallel universe, then what kind of fortitude has been bred among his kind? He carried a primitive weapon and a worthless communications device. The technology of his world is shoddy, and his reflexes are pathetic. Yet he withstands the onslaught of six hours of constant agony and refuses to break. "What sort of world do you come from?" Archer murmurs.
"I'm afraid the prisoner has not divulged any personal information," Phlox says. "Not to fear, though; his nervous system will continue to respond until he shuts down from insomnia, whereupon we can start the process all over again." Confidently he adds, "He'll break. It's only a matter of time."
"Turn it off," Archer orders. When Phlox hesitates he emphasizes, "I want to talk to him."
Reluctantly Phlox powers down the booth. The Englishman slumps back, wheezing, and tucks into himself. It's a primal instinct to prevent further pain. Perhaps he's closer to the edge than Archer thought.
"You're a captive aboard the Enterprise," Archer says curtly, raising the man's attention. "I'm Commander Jonathan Archer, second in command to the captain of this ship. I can petition for your release..." He waits until a dull gleam lights the rebel's eyes before concluding, "... If you give me the information I want."
Sighing, the rebel lets his head fall back. "When it tossed near the cliffs," he murmurs, "Fettered by cold..."
"I'm saying, I can help you!" Archer states, pounding his fist against the glass. The rebel flinches but doesn't interrupt his mantra. "Give me your name! That's all you have to do, and then you can rest."
Pain of a different sort lances the prisoner's eyes as he looks away from Archer's face. "Sea-weary soul..."
Antagonized, Archer swerves to face the Denobulan and jabs his thumb at the booth. "Put him back on iron."
He stamps out of the interrogation room, his fists clenched around his slipping control, and his mind numb to the revitalized screams.
Malcolm thought he mastered the ache in his soul after Archer commanded Phlox to reactivate the sequencer. His captain - his friend - is now his inquisitor; his adversary; his tormentor. He could not suffer a crueler blow.
Until the doors open and a stoic, brisk soldier tramps through, one side of his face twisted in a permanent scowl, the other pinched in habitual leeriness. Grim satisfaction twists the corner of Trip's mouth as a particularly vengeful spasm almost flings Malcolm to his knees.
"Almost like watching the real thing. I wish I'd had a chance to see the major squirm in there. How long's he been at it?"
"Six hours, fifty-two minutes. Is there something you require, Commander?"
"Nah. Just wanted to see the show." Pacing slowly around the booth, Trip observes the twitching responses as Phlox adjust the panel, and winces sympathetically. "Sure licks somethin' fierce, doesn't it? You know, one of these days I'm gonna give the major a taste of his own savagery. He'd better watch his back."
"You'll have to get in line," Phlox says amicably. "There's a number of officers who wouldn't mind - shall we say - serving a cold dish of vengeance."
The lone blue eye crinkles in mockery. Gripping the pulse of agony in his sternum, Malcolm latches onto that single clear orb. Is this what he is to become? Hated by his friends and crew mates, heaping cruelty upon others until bitter justice sees it meted upon himself?
Is there no one that I've remained loyal to here?
Marginally, the rancor drops out of Trip's gaze. "Kinda feel sorry for him," he admits. "We don't even know what he's done yet."
"He's a traitor the to Empire," Phlox says. "Need we any more evidence?"
Shrugging, Trip chews the inside of his cheek. What has become of you? Malcolm implores. Where is the engineer who craves pan-fried catfish, and chatters optimistically when survival is improbable? What became of the man who loved a daughter, coaxed the humanity out of T'Pol, and latched onto him as the most unlikely friend? What have they done to you, Trip?
"Guess this is what'll become of all of us sooner or later," Trip muses. "We're either allies or enemies of the Empire; just depends on where the dime falls."
Startling back to himself, as though realizing he's pondering questionable matters in front of the chief of interrogation, Trip clears his throat and limps to the exit. Malcolm ducks against the glass panel, forced to close his eyes. When the blemished side of Trip's face is turned away, he can almost believe that his friend is walking through those doors.
Leaving him here. Alone.
Every time he's certain he'll pass out and have some respite, a new cluster of nerves sears awake, pressing him against the glass. Major Reed is very good at his work. Malcolm can hardly see the woman entering the interrogation unit, hazed as his sight is by sweat and the inflammation of the cranial nerve, but he can make out a swathe of blond hair, and as she draws closer, the unmistakable crest of pointed ears.
"Lieutenant Commander." Phlox's greeting is muffled by the roar of blood pulsing in Malcolm's ears. "You don't have clearance for this section."
"Captain Forrest wants to ensure the prisoner is kept alive," T'Pol says tonelessly. "He hasn't received a status report in two hours."
"That's because there's nothing to report," Major Reed snaps. His frustration goads his hand as he jabs at the panel, and Malcolm hollers as his legs go limp, fire encasing them from the knees to the soles of his feet. "He hasn't said a word for the last hour."
"He's been making some rather interesting noises," Phlox comments. "I would call that progress."
"What the devil is he hiding?" Reed snarls. Fire encases Malcolm's skull and he hunches over, involuntary tears streaking down the bridge of his nose.
"You already tampered with his cerebral cluster a few minutes ago," he dimly hears Phlox scold. "You can't target the same nerves over and over. You'll overwhelm his - "
"I know!" Reed shouts.
"I think you're jealous!" Phlox simpers. "He's held out far better than you managed. Six hours, I believe, and you were disowning your own mother?"
There's not much to hear after that. He can't make out anything above his own screams.
At some point they must have shut off the booth, or he must have bashed his head against the wall, because he finds himself on the floor, blinking slowly, feeling as though his eyelids have been flayed along with every inch of his face. The blond T'Pol is back, examining him from a predatory crouch. Her uniform is… tasteful, he admits, one that he wouldn't mind seeing back on his own enterprise, but her eyes carry the same resignation of every crewman he's seen on this wretched ship. She's as much a prisoner as himself.
"You lasted for eleven hours and fourteen minutes," T'Pol says coolly. "Major Reed lost patience and overstimulated your intercostals. Too many clusters were targeted and your body simply collapsed. You probably won't be ambulating for several days."
Yes, he can gage that for himself. He feels nothing in his legs save a faint, needling chill that gradually morphs into a raw blaze closer to his spine. His hands curl on command, but he can only detect a minimal, electrified sensation in the base of his palms. His fingers are as insensate as his feet. As for rest of his body… he wishes the numbness had claimed every nerve. His arms and thighs ache, his back may well have been excoriated, his ribs feel shattered, and every tooth has been seared down to the jaw. He can't move his head without another pulse careening down his neck and spine. He won't walk anywhere. Not for days. Not for weeks. Certainly not without medical aid.
T'Pol swings to her feet as the door opens behind her. Malcolm watches dispassionately, bracing himself as two officers approach the booth. Major Reed's incessant sneer curls in satisfaction.
"I told you he'd regain consciousness soon."
Stoically green eyes rake over Malcolm, assessing him as one would overlook a shoddy piece of equipment. He's never felt so demoralized in front of his captain. "Bring him out of there," Archer says dispassionately. "We're taking him with us."
"He'll weigh us down," Reed complains, keying the booth doors. "What makes you think he'll talk on another starship?"
"This is something from his homeworld," Archer taunts, stepping aside as Reed hauls Malcolm to his useless feet, bracing him as he slides uncoordinatedly. "I think he'll be glad to give us a tour."
"The captain hasn't given clearance for us to take the prisoner," T'Pol warns.
Tapping his phase-pistol against the Vulcan's chin, Archer regards her serenely and answers, "The captain put me in charge of this mission. You can include any discrepancies in your report."
Turning to Reed, he gives a jerky nod. "Bring him."
The technology is magnificent. Everything is clean and orderly, not nearly so militaristic as the original Enterprise. It's a place where Malcolm thinks he would feel at home even on a long voyage.
But this is not his ship.
"Start talking," Archer orders, flinging him into the captain's chair. Ah, isn't this a familiar scenario. He'd rather face an army of Sulibans, however, than answer to this nob wearing his captain's face.
"I can try convincing him," Reed offers.
"You had your chance," Archer snaps. "I'm done playing games, Rebel. You're from this universe, aren't you? What ship is this? Where does it hail from? Who commanded it?"
Malcolm grimaces a sneer, forcing his aching jaw to spread. For the first time he speaks, if only to glory in the irony of a similar interrogation. "I don't know."
Archer regards him placantly for a moment, and then calmly, deliberately, smashes his jaw.
He wakes in a detention cell, soundly thrashed. There's new pain atop the fired nerves. After the first few blows Archer stopped asking questions and simply let Reed paste him. He himself wandered off, muttering something about the ship's logs offering more information, while Malcolm tried not to holler between bloodied teeth as his limbs and torso were pummeled.
He doesn't bother stretching for the bunk, though it looks fairly comfortable compared to the floor. Nothing wants to move, anyways. Some feeling is returning to his hands, but the muscles are stiff and swollen. He suspects he has a broken wrist along with the cracked ribs. He tries feeling along his jaw with his tongue, and immediately abandons that effort. A few welts from Archer's wrath have certainly dislocated it, if not cracked the bone.
There's nothing left to do now but to drift in and out of consciousness, and pray that - if this is a dream - it will end before he does.
He hears muffled explosions, and a single tremor rolls him against the wall. He wonders if this is how the uninspiring tale of Malcolm Reed will end, and if any of his crew will know that he is gone.
Steely hands grip his forearms and shove him against the wall. Blearily he opens his eyes, cringing when Archer's scowl looms in front of him.
"This is what you were hiding?" the commander snarls. "Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, of the United Federation of Planets. I wondered about the resemblance, but I had no idea that Reed's counterpart was so pathetic. No wonder you couldn't make it past lieutenant."
Anger flares inside of him, baiting his tongue, and for once Malcolm desires to speak, if only to chasten this tyrant who could have united the universe if he had only embraced his compassion. This man who could have been remembered eternally for an honorable career, admired and loved by his crew.
Blinded by loss, yearning for the Enterprise he knows, he hisses the first vengeful syllables. His words peter off in an unseemly whimper. He cannot open his jaw.
"What a waste," Archer mutters. He seizes a double handful of Malcolm's uniform and slams him against the wall, huffing when he moans. "This is the result of Starfleet's peaceful regime? Your crew was weak. Your captain had no vision. You're nothing compared to the progress of the Empire."
If progress is evaluated by fear, and victory measured in body counts, then yes; the Enterprise has failed. They failed to rule as dictators, enslaving other planets until they ceased to care for their own crew. They failed to seal off their compassion; that wondrous trait that goaded them to send a Klingon home, rescue a hive of Xindi embryos, turn back when two officers were lost aboard a shuttle with minimal life support…..
He's making an odd snuffling sound, and water is dripping onto Archer's hands. He doesn't care how contemptible it makes him look. He yearns for his crew.
"Keep yer shirt on, Lieutenant."
"I think Lieutenant Reed is old enough to answer for himself."
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"It's unethical to harm a patient."
"It's the captain's chair!"
"The Malcolm Reed I know would give his life before committing treason."
"I answer to one commanding officer: Jonathan Archer."
A hand cups his cheek, supporting his aching head, and for an instant he almost believes it's his captain shouldering his despair. Then cruel fingers tangle in his hair and yank his head back, exposing his throat to the knife in Archer's hand.
"If I wasn't a merciful captain, I'd dispose of you now," Archer says, tilting the blade into the flesh just below the jugular. "But I think I'll give you some time with your thoughts."
He stands abruptly, tossing Malcolm against the bunk, and stalks out without a word. Huddled against the bed frame, too weak to lift himself higher, Malcolm gives a shuddering gasp and presses his hand against his throat. Blood trickles into his collar.
This nightmare won't end, then. Not with his death. Not with the Enterprise's demise. He'll languish here as long as they keep him alive, wondering what happened to his own crew.
Tugging at the bunk's coverlet, he yanks as hard as his feeble hands allow, slumping back when his frailty denies him even this small comfort. There's nothing left to do but close his eyes and try to shut everything out. There's little hope to be found in this universe.
He expects the captain when his prison opens, but it's no less unsettling to see Hoshi leaning against the doorway. She's nothing like the translator he remembers. Gentle Hoshi, who startled when she first felt a warp jump, and braved the universe to make first contact with species that Earth had never seen. This officer, decked in a form-fitting uniform, eyes shadowed seductively, hair pinned alluringly behind her head, hides little of her intrigue as her eyes sweep up and down Malcolm's prone body.
"I'm almost tempted to keep you," Hoshi coos, strolling into the detainment cell. She lights beside Malcolm and grips his swollen jaw, filling his vision with speckled lights in a black expanse. The haze passes and he cringes as Hoshi leans forward, trailing her finger down his cheekbone.
"If the major had your eyes, I'd have trained him to beg by now," Hoshi simpers. "Something in your face… I've never seen it before…."
Naturally. The woman has probably seen little of kindness, or respect, or honor. A man of compassion would have thrown her a shirt if she needed it, rather than take advantage of her vulnerable state. Something which Major Reed will never understand.
This version of Hoshi is well versed in cruelty, however, for without warning she seizes Malcolm's face and presses her mouth against his own, biting down, crushing him, opening the splits on his lips and pressing into splintered bone. He wails softly and pushes against her, panicking at his own pitiful state, horrified that he cannot even defend himself against a woman having her way.
With a coy laugh, Hoshi rips away from him and wipes the blood from her chin. "Pity the major never had your style. I'd like to see him squirm under me. If only there was more time... But as the new Empress, I have a fleet to command, and you're too cumbersome to keep alive."
He knows what is coming before she steps out of the detention cell. The door latches behind her, baring only her coquettish smile, before the air vents hiss and white fog flows around him. The vapor assails him, burning lungs which are too weak to expel it. Coughing feebly, he curls onto the floor, tears streaming from his irritated eyes.
Perhaps this will end it. Perhaps he will wake in his own quarters, with a murderous hangover and censorship from the captain asking why he inebriated himself right before his shift. Perhaps he will simply cease to exist, and the Enterprise will never know what has become of him.
Perhaps he was already dying, and this is the final struggle as his consciousness gives way.
He breathes deeply and lets it all go.
"There, now. I told you he would regain consciousness sooner or later."
Blinding white light assails Malcolm's eyes before someone tuts and a warm, wet cloth is laid over them. His head throbs at the light touch, adjoining the blade ramming down his neck and spine. Every nerve in his body flares to life.
Heaven save him, was it no dream after all?
"Aseptic Meningitis," he hears Phlox drone outside of the fog. "I'm surprised the lieutenant managed to contract it in the middle of outer space, but then again, he has proved capable of incubating infections diseases to which the rest of the crew is perfectly inoculated. Still, it's better than Regulan Fever. A few days of bedrest and another round of antibodies, and he should be back to his obstinate, self-reliant habits."
"He should have said something." Archer's voice is muffled. Where is he? "When he mentioned a headache, I assumed it was another sinus cold."
"Meningitis does mimic the symptoms of common human illnesses," Phlox agrees. "You're lucky, Captain; there are many foreign viruses in the galaxy for which you humans have no immunity. This could have been much worse."
The clamor in his head reaches a pinnacle and Malcolm drifts away, feeling as though his brain has been crushed in the booth.
When he comes to himself, the light isn't nearly as harsh, and the anguish of electrified nerves has ebbed to a light tenderness, as though his sea scraped his skin raw and left him to burn on the sandbank. His head lolls to the left and he swiftly takes in the familiar, off-white walls of sickbay.
He's never been happier to wake up on a biobed.
"I see you're awake."
Instinctively Malcolm flinches, memories of a derisive Denobulan smile clashing with Phlox's open, solicitous expression. The physician's eyebrows rise, but he doesn't seem to notice the flighty response.
"You might be disorientated," Phlox explains, reaching for a medscanner as Malcolm gingerly raises himself to a seated position. "You had a fever of one-hundred and four degrees for two days. Delusions and hallucinations are common when the brain is overheated. I've given you a light sedative for the pain."
"Wha' happened?" Malcolm grimaces, reaching for his jaw. There's no swelling. Not even a broken tooth. He still feels like someone tried to mince his face.
"You contracted an Earth virus - Aseptic Meningitis. By the time the captain ordered you to report to sickbay, the fever had already taken hold. You've been out of your mind with delirium these last four days."
Delirium…. Fever…. "I'm on the Enterprise?" Malcolm says. Thought is as welcome a relief as the glass of water that Phlox presses into his shaking hand. He fumbles, the water sloshing over his skin, and braces the glass in both hands. Surely the nerve damage was a figment of his dream!
"Don't be surprised if you suffer some discomfort for a day or two," Phlox cautions him. "Inflammation is a common side effect of the fever. I'll send something with you for the pain. You won't be returning to duty for another three days - doctor's orders."
Returning to duty. Aboard his Enterprise. Wiping his mouth carefully, his mind still expecting the twang of a broken wrist, Malcolm sets down the glass and dangles his legs over the biobed. "When can I leave?"
"When you're fully capable of walking on your own," Phlox says humorously, catching Malcolm as he sways. "You tried to find your way to engineering two nights ago. Sub-Commander T'Pol practically dragged you back to sickbay. She was quite disgruntled, to say the least."
"I don't remember any of that," Malcolm admits, shaking his head.
"The fever nearly cooked your brain. You're lucky you can remember your own name," Phlox says, coaxing him to lay back down. "I know you're anxious to leave, but your system is in a catastrophic state and you'll still require monitoring for the next few hours. If you like, I can send for Commander Tucker. You seemed rather distraught about him last night. Something about a scar on the side of…."
As soon as Malcolm is capable of staying awake for an entire conversation, Phlox lets him entertain visitors. A few crewmen drop by to wish him well. He feels humbled, grateful that he's nothing like the Major Reed of the other universe, and there are those who will take notice if he should perish.
It's a sweet, bitter consolation to see Hoshi traipse inside, her light tread always skipping a jaunt, as though she's used to walking in gardens rather than the cold void of space. Her warm sympathies erase the figments of a sadistic Empress, and when she leaves she takes some of the heaviness away from Malcolm's heart.
He's quite ready to escape sickbay - in the middle of trying to yank on his boots, in fact - when Trip strolls inside. "Figured I'd be the one to find you absconding," the commander says lightly.
An honest laugh hovers in Malcolm's chest, and he sheepishly holds out his hand and allows Trip to haul him to his feet.
"Didn't we go over this with the sub-commander?" Trip teases. "Somethin' about playing around in engineering when you're warm enough to set off the fire-suppression system?"
"I think I'm quite ready to leave on my own, now," Malcolm declares.
"Uh-huh." Hoisting Malcolm's arm over his shoulder, Trip turns him in the direction of the biobed and says, "Humor me for just a minute."
Malcolm suspects there's more on the commander's mind than his 'tenuous balance.' As soon as he's seated properly, Trip leans against the adjacent bed and inquires, "So… delirium, huh?"
"Apparently," Malcolm says, shrugging.
"You seemed pretty hung-up about something," Trip says. "You kept on pulling up lines from The Seafarer, and then you started muttering something about coming home while the captain was in here. Dang it, Malcolm, we thought it was touch and go at that point!"
Startled, Malcolm rubs the joint on his wrist, where not even a bruise testifies the ordeal of his mind. "I was dying?"
"Meningitis is serious, Malcolm," Trip lectures. "We don't even mess with that on Earth. You kept babbling about the Enterprise and corrupted officers - we figured it had to be a pretty messed up dream." Shifting uncomfortably, he comments, "Captain's wondering if something was left unsettled recently. You know, with… with the Klingons and all. You seemed pretty scared of him."
"Afraid?" Malcolm gapes, appalled at the insinuation. "Of the captain?"
"Well… of all of us," Trip mumbles. "Kept saying somethin' about a booth. You never mentioned anyone outside of crew members, so Phlox theorized you were rehashing some old trauma that never got resolved."
Shaking his head, Malcolm banishes the dismal images of Empress Sato and Commander Archer, and his own leering face. "I don't have any idea why he believes that," he says with fervent honesty. "You're the only family I have."
"Sure there's no 'family issues' we haven't bothered discussing?" Trip ventures. Malcolm can't tell if it's regret shadowing his eyes, or hurt that his friend would think so little of him. He stolidly shakes his head.
"Don't ask me to interpret a dream, Trip. You've never given me any reason to hold something against you."
"Mm, I wouldn't be too sure of that," Trip muses, but the lighthearted quirk has returned to his voice, and he is more ready to aid Malcolm in his getaway.
One more broken memory is erased, and Malcolm finds it easier to close his eyes once he lays down on his own bunk. Until he wakes in the middle of the night, shuddering imperceptibly, remembering a knife slicing into his throat.
Is it guilt or revelation that is preventing the captain from visiting him?
Malcolm doesn't have long to contemplate the possibility that he has ostracized his captain. A chime at his door heralds a wriggling, hyperactive mound of patched fur and floppy ears, followed quickly by its two-legged companion. Loosely folding his arms, Archer leans back and chuckles as Porthos assails Malcolm with his sloppy tongue and wet nose.
"I would've come by earlier, but you'd already left sickbay. Tucker said you fell asleep the moment you hit your bunk. I figured I'd better let you rest." The good humor flees Archer's expression as Malcolm conveniently distracts himself with rubbing Porthos' ears. "You seem pretty upset about something."
"It's nothing, Captain," Malcolm assures, mustering a wan smile. "I'll be back about my duties in no time."
"I've heard that response before." Ambling to the chair, Archer takes a seat and crosses one foot over his knee. "Is this about the mission with Harris?"
Why does everyone think he's harboring misgivings about that mission? "Captain, that was months ago!" Malcolm protests. "We both know that I was the one who jeopardized my position."
"Does it still rankle you," Archer says insistently. "Whatever's going on in that head of yours, I'd rather hear it to my face than realize it's warping your view of the crew."
"Captain!" Shaking his head at the ludicrousy of the notion, Malcolm says frankly, "This has nothing to do with the crew. I dreamed of an entirely separate universe - one where we were the conquerors. Even I was a sadistic menace!"
Captain Archer blinks at the ready admission, momentarily stunned. Perhaps he senses the self-loathing curdled into Malcolm's statement; the horror associated with that fiendish major who evoked hatred in everyone who knew him.
"You mean an alternate universe," Archer surmises. "Like… an alternate Enterprise."
"In a way," Malcolm says. "Only you weren't the captain, and the Vulcans were a conquered race."
Disturbed, Archer crosses his legs and narrows his eyes at Porthos, trying to unravel this statement. "So… what was my place in this universe?"
"First Officer," Malcolm says, eager to forget the matter. "I was the major of the MACO corp."
"I take it that's not a lifelong dream," Archer says wryly. He sobers at the miserable look cast his way. "Malcolm, if any of this was drawn up from previous conflicts…."
"It wasn't," Malcolm insists. "I wouldn't have imagined myself in the same dream. It was… something hallucinative. They even had data banks on their ship about our universe, comparing the two."
"How did they see us?" Archer wonders.
Huffing, Malcolm ruffles Porthos' ears. How marvelous, the ease and companionship that an animal can offer, without taking personal grievance against the figments of one's dreams. "They thought our compassion weakened us," he says, fixing his eyes on the captain. His captain. "They believed that your endeavors in seeking a federation alliance kept you from advancing Earth's Empire."
"An alliance, huh?" Archer murmurs. "Seems nice." Idly he picks at a scuff on his trouser leg as he poses, "And what did you think… throughout."
The vagueness of the question poses the uncertainty of a captain, wondering if he has failed one of his men. Malcolm's voice is as confident as his heart as he swears, "I was always waiting for you to show up, Captain. I knew you would never have left me in that universe."
Because this is his crew, on his Enterprise, serving under a leader who defends his crew with the sternness of an old sea captain and the compassion of a father. The Enterprise is the only family Malcolm has, and he knows that he never need fear the man who has brought them all together.
The last shard of the bad dream falls away and dissipates.
He's right where he belongs.