This is a long story, but is complete and will be posted regularly every two or three days.
It is set quite early in our saga, when T'Pol is still perceived as "the Vulcan on board".
Grateful thanks to my wonderful beta readers, Gabi 2305 and RoaringMice, who really help me get things right!
§ 1 §
There were words, blossoming like fireworks in the darkness of his mind, lighting for a mere instant before withering into nothingness. He couldn't hold them long enough to piece them together, to have them make any sense. They were tense voices, though, which didn't bode well. Especially because he was... oh hell, he was going to...
"Turn him on his side, quickly!"
By the time he was finished there was nothing left in him, not even a groan. Capable hands took care of his drained body and he listlessly accepted it, unable to help, or even oppose them; or to stop his mind from drifting away and peeking over the edge, into the… deep… peaceful… so… bloody… nice… vo…
"Malcolm!"
"Not now, Commander."
"I've got to find out... wouldn't ask if..."
"Surely you can see... won't be able..."
"Doc, please!"
Something cold was pressed to his neck. The beckoning darkness withdrew a little, though it held still at some distance, ready to pounce.
"Malcolm!"
A hand closed around his arm, its grip gentle – as if afraid to hurt him – yet firm. Cracking unfocussed eyes open, he blinked, taking in the shape that was there. At least he knew to whom it belonged. His throat burned from the retching, and when he made to speak only an unintelligible sound came out, which led to a bout of coughing. That felt as if he had swallowed a handful of needles.
"What happened? Malcolm, can you hear me?"
Strange how some things were covered in fog while others registered very clearly in his mind: the soft but steady beep of his pulse on the monitors, for example, reassuring him that his heart was doing a proper job of keeping him alive. Perhaps this would not be his time.
But what was it that Trip had asked him?
Restraints closed around him, and disorientation swept him off again. Where was he? A prisoner? The beeping picked up speed.
"I need to get him into the imaging chamber, Commander. Stand aside."
Ah.
"Tr… Trip?"
"What happened? Malcolm, stay with me!"
What had happened? That's what he wanted to know too.
"The Capt'n, where is he?"
Another gentle squeeze around his arm prompted a reply he could not formulate. Bits and pieces. There were only bits and pieces. And the Captain... A sudden flashback made his muscles clench, and the beeps went wild with the abrupt realisation that the Captain might well be in bits and pieces himself.
"Commander, let me--"
"Something went off," Malcolm breathed out, his voice – what little had managed to come out - sounding panicky.
"What? What did you say? Malcolm!"
"Commander, step aside or I will have to order you out of sickbay."
Phlox. He sounded angry – definitely not good. The hand reluctantly let go of him, and Malcolm was sorry about it. Because with a soft buzz the bed began to move him into the solitary confines where, alone with his conscience, he would probably have enough time to retrieve some pretty damnable memories.
"Tucker to T'Pol."
Trip stood rigidly by the comm. link, unwilling to leave Sickbay. He was damned worried and wanted to wait for Phlox's diagnosis. He also still hoped that through some miracle, when the biobed slid out of the imaging chamber, Malcolm would be himself again, and he could get some answers.
"Go ahead," the Vulcan's monotone voice replied.
"Any news?"
"No."
"What do you mean, no?" Trip snapped, frustration getting the better of him. Let the woman waste a few more words, for heaven's sake! Vulcan poise and understatement right now were a pain in the--
"I have made no progress in locating the Captain," T'Pol expounded, adding right after, "How is Lieutenant Reed? Were you able to speak to him?"
Trip shot a concerned look towards the imaging chamber. "Not really. He's barely conscious. I think he muttered that somethin' went off, but I'm not sure I caught it right. He's bein' scanned right now." Blowing out a slow breath to ease some of his tension, he enquired, "Have you sensor-swept the place?"
"Yes. I cannot find the Captain's biosigns."
Trip scrunched his eyes shut. "How is that possible? A transport?" he wondered, the idea not making him feel any better.
"A possibility. If he was transported out we should find a signature," T'Pol came back. "Another possibility is that sensors readings may not be entirely reliable. I will keep you informed of our progress, Commander. T'Pol out."
Trip closed the link and fell back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. When he lifted his eyes he noticed that the picture of a body – Malcolm's body – had appeared on the screen over the imaging chamber. Phlox was studying it, one hand cradling his chin. Trip's shoulder-blades sprouted springs, and he found himself propelled towards the physician.
"Doc?" he prompted softly, forcing the word out as he stopped a distance away, suddenly wary. Malcolm had not looked great. The bandage Phlox had hurriedly slipped under his head as soon as the man had been transferred from the transporter pad to a stretcher had become soaked in blood in no time. Not long afterwards, the Lieutenant had been sick and virtually passed out.
The Denobulan shot a quick glance over one shoulder. "No internal injuries, fortunately," he said. "A few bruises. No fracture of the skull either, but he suffered a severe concussion. I will need to keep him under close observation for at least twenty-four hours. Transporting him back, though unavoidable, certainly wasn't the best thing for him."
Trip let out the breath he'd been holding. Malcolm's head was harder than duranium: despite Phlox's qualms he felt sure the man would be okay. The Captain, though...
Phlox called up an image of Malcolm's brain. As he studied it he commented, "Everything leads to think that the Lieutenant suffered blunt force trauma."
"Doc, don't get mad," Trip said tautly, finally confident enough to close the gap between them, "but I really need Malcolm to tell me what the hell happened on that planet; you heard what T'Pol said about the Capt'n."
The Denobulan dragged his eyes away from Malcolm's scans. "Commander, I'm aware of the situation, and I'll do whatever I can to help, rest assured."
There was the empathy they had all come to appreciate in their CMO. "Thanks," Trip began gratefully.
"Except endanger my patient," Phlox went on, very seriously. "Mister Reed needs rest; therefore I will let you speak to him only briefly."
"Understood."
Phlox uploaded the imaging chamber's scans to his desk computer; then pressed a button and the bed with Malcolm strapped to it slid out. The man blinked a few times. He definitely looked more with it than before. When the restraints were undone, though, he made no move to sit up, which, more than any scientific explanation gave Trip the measure of how serious his concussion must be.
"Are you with us, Lieutenant?" the Doctor enquired, flashing a quick light into his patient's eyes. Even Trip could see that Malcolm's pupils were quite dilated.
"Somewhat," was the mumbled reply.
"You tried your best once again to crack your skull, Mister Reed, albeit unsuccessfully," Phlox informed him as he gently turned Malcolm's head to one side. The action elicited a hiss of pain, but the Doctor proceeded nonetheless to take away the compress, which had once again become bloodied. "You also tried to break a few bones, again to no avail."
With practised movements, while speaking softly to distract his wincing patient, Phlox went on to clean and suture the wound, and apply a new dressing.
"You'll have to be monitored for a while," he finally said to Malcolm, who looked like he hadn't followed much of the one-way conversation. "Commander Tucker here needs to speak to you; right after I'll take care of your bruises and make you more comfortable." Turning to Trip, he added meaningfully, "Remember, Commander, keep it short." Then he moved to his desk computer, leaving them alone.
All too aware of his friend's drawn features, Trip reached and gently squeezed Malcolm's shoulder. "We can't find any trace of the Capt'n," he told him, skipping the civilities. "Can you remember what happened?"
Malcolm turned warily. The grey eyes locked with Trip's for a long moment, disturbingly distant, painfully worried; then drifted closed. "More or less," he breathed out.
§ On the planet, one hour before §
Scanner held in front of him, Archer moved it in a circular motion around them. Malcolm spared the man a glance before turning his attention fully to their surroundings. In his own hand was something just as important and useful, if not more: a phase pistol.
"I'm not reading any biosigns," Archer said, confirming what T'Pol had told them on Enterprise.
The words weren't necessarily reassuring, as far as Malcolm was concerned: the planet's particular atmosphere made readings of any kind imprecise, therefore unreliable.
"That doesn't automatically mean we're alone," Malcolm reminded his C.O. A bit of extra caution was always good to have. He swept the place visually, taking in the inhospitable landscape with its bare, reddish rocks. The place was so barren that it made him long for rainy England. Most of the rocks were large enough to hide nasty surprises. For a brief moment he let his gaze stray further into the distance; beyond a large stretch of plain, dusty land, some vegetation seemed to grow, perhaps a sort of oasis.
The air was hot and dusty, and not very rich in oxygen. Malcolm coughed, controlling the urge to cover his nose and mouth with an arm. "Perhaps we should have suited up," he croaked out hoarsely. Archer shot him a smile – of all things.
"It's only a little dust, Malcolm, and I'm not planning on pitching any tents," he quipped, before giving in to a small fit of coughing himself. "There," he said when he had recovered, pointing to the right with one outstretched arm. "That must be it."
The object was difficult to spot, actually, for it was covered in red dust like the rest of their surroundings. Even though its smoother and pointier shape set it apart from the rocks, Malcolm had to look hard to see it. Archer – his wounded pride argued – had had the advantage of a scanner.
It was a small obelisk. Or what looked like an obelisk. From where they were, it didn't appear to stand much taller than the Captain, and it was right on the last line of boulders, before the plain stretch of land. Malcolm couldn't see any inscriptions on it, though there might well be some under the layer of dust.
"That's definitely it," Archer murmured, starting slowly towards the thing, eyes on his scanner. "It's giving out the signal Hoshi was unable to decipher."
"Sir," Malcolm cautioned, falling in step with him, "I wouldn't get too close. We're not even sure it's a distress signal. In fact, seeing as there is nobody around, it seems unlikely it is."
"We're here to find out, Malcolm," Archer replied unperturbed.
Malcolm could see that the man was already committed to this new adventure. Archer had the true spirit of an explorer. Unfortunately he lacked that healthy dose of restraint which granted explorers – maybe – the chance to reach an old age. He – Malcolm – had tried to guide him to that way of thinking, but so far it had been a lost cause. Damn, but he could really do without poking their noses into any weird thing they came across.
However, he still had a last card to play.
"With all due respect, Captain, unless we're sure it's a distress signal, we shouldn't waste any time on it. The Admiral–"
"Objection noted, Lieutenant," Archer cut him off. He turned and pierced him with those stubborn green eyes Malcolm knew all too well. "Why don't you take a look around, while I scan the object?"
Malcolm clenched his jaw, biting back another objection. He held his C.O.'s gaze for as long as he dared; then caved in to the unyielding expression. He knew from experience when it was futile to insist. "Aye, Sir," he dutifully replied.
It was perhaps a couple of minutes later that the high-pitched sound started. Malcolm, some ten metres off to the left, turned abruptly. Archer was frozen beside the obelisk, scanner still in hand.
"Captain," Malcolm called out to him in urgent tones, "I don't like this, Sir. Get away." The man turned to shoot him a glance, for once showing full agreement. He took a step, and that's when…
"That's when something went off," Malcolm said. "A… a displacement field of some sort."
A small vein was throbbing on his temple and his voice was fading, and Trip felt sorry for having to put him through this.
"That's the last..." Malcolm deflated, his chest caving in. "I'm sorry," he said in a whisper. "There's nothing else I…" The rest died on his lips.
"Okay." Trip squeezed his friend's shoulder again, in silent comfort. "Get some rest," he told him, striving to keep the despair he was beginning to feel out of his voice.
As he was already moving away, Malcolm's hand grazed his arm, and the man's eyes, which had remained closed throughout his report, cracked open. Dilated pupils couldn't hide the trouble in them.
"Keep me posted."
"Will do."
When Trip turned to go, Phlox was there, a mirthless half smile on his lips. "Thank you, Commander," he said, tilting his head in a silent good-bye.
"He's all yours, Doc," Trip croacked out. "Take good care of him."
We don't want to lose any more people, he wanted to add; but his tongue stuck to his palate, for the words would imply something he didn't want to take into consideration. Not yet. Wasn't he the ship's resident optimist?
"Of course," Phlox replied, already moving towards his patient.
TBC
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