Warnings: Futurefic. Deathfic. Tucker/Reed slash although only insofar as they have been a married couple for almost 40 years. This story is not about bedroom antics but rather about love, loss and coping.
The inspiration for this story came from In the Company of Ghosts by Glass Shoe, which is a beautiful take on These Are the Voyages . . . It's such a shame that the professional writers who were getting paid didn't choose to go there! What got to me was the description of Malcolm 33 years after Trip's death. I read military history in my spare time, so the description put me in mind of another English admiral - one who was also slender, of only medium height, one-armed, a legend in his own time and devoted to duty, with an unusual domestic situation that left him with a daughter whom he rarely saw but who was devoted to him. I know there are a lot of readers on this site from the UK, and I hope they won't mind an Anglophile Yankee playing around a bit with the legend of Admiral Lord Nelson.
"England expects that every man will do his duty." -- Signal sent to the British fleet by Admiral Lord Nelson just prior to the battle of Trafalgar, October 21, 1805
Earth Expects . . .
Captain Charles "Trip" Tucker, III, sat alone in the back of the passenger cabin of the commercial subspace shuttle from the King William V space port in London to the Carter-King space port in Atlanta. His traveling companions, Jonathan Archer, the retired Starfleet admiral and Trip's captain all those years ago on Enterprise; T-Pol, the Vulcan ambassador to Earth, former first officer of the Enterprise and bond mate to Admiral Archer; and the Lady Jhamel Shran, life mate of the commanding general of the Andorian Imperial Guard, Lord Thy'lek Shran, and speaker of the Andorian Imperial Senate; had one by one and unobtrusively withdrawn to the observation deck of the shuttle to allow Trip to be alone with his memories yet still readily available should their company be desired. So much had happened in the last few weeks. There was so much to sort out, but one thing was already crystal clear: Trip's life would never be the same.
Trip had seen state funerals on the video channels - the body lying in state beneath the Capitol dome, the service at the National Cathedral, the solemn procession past the Lincoln Memorial, across the Potomac and into Arlington National Cemetery - and had always been impressed by the beauty, solemnity and majesty of it all, but American ceremonies couldn't hold a candle to what he had just seen and experienced firsthand in London. You had to admit, the Brits could do pageantry like no one else. Trip thought that his husband, Malcolm Reed, who was so proud of his English heritage, would have loved it. At least he hoped Mal would have loved it. In Trip's mind, no one could have deserved it more.
Sometimes, when a loved one dies, the one left behind, in their grief, is filled with anger toward the departed. "How could you leave me? How do you expect me to deal with this alone?" Whatever anger Trip might have felt, he wouldn't - couldn't - direct it at Malcolm. There was another, though. With some bitterness, he knew one person, though long dead, who most likely would not have been satisfied and would not have approved. Stuart Reed would have looked at the velvet-lined case displaying Malcolm's numerous decorations and would have complained that his son had never had what it took to win the Victoria Cross. The Starfleet equivalent that Malcolm had won would have been as worthless in the elder Reed's eyes as the Yank's Congressional Medal of Honor. Probably most appalling to Stuart would have been that it was neither the ensign of the Royal Navy nor even the Union Jack, but rather the flag of Starfleet that had draped the coffin bearing the shattered body of his son.
Trip wondered if Stuart would even have attended the funeral. Would it have mattered to him that military and civilian representatives from the countries of United Earth and the Federated Worlds had packed St. Paul's Cathedral to pay their respects to his son, the man who had lead the fleet that defeated the Romulans and thereby saved Earth? Would he have appreciated the sentiments of the everyday people who formed the massive crowd that lined the route of the funeral procession from Westminster Abbey to St. Paul's, who had stood in line for hours in the cold fall rain to view his son's bier, who signed books of condolence in the British embassies and consulates all over Earth or who left massive piles of flowers and candles at Starfleet Headquarters at The Presidio in San Francisco?
What would he have thought of the highly polished, deep lapis blue, stone sarcophagus that had been brought from Andoria, placed in the crypt below the dome of St. Paul's beside the graves of Admiral Lord Nelson and the Duke of Wellington, revered men who had saved England in an earlier time of deadly peril, and was inscribed "Admiral, The Right Honourable Malcolm, Viscount Reed"? The name had been followed by a myriad of letters - more letters than in a bowl of alphabet soup Trip had once joked - denoting other honors Malcolm had won. Would it finally have been enough for Stuart to acknowledge with pride that Malcolm was his son? Trip's mood turned even darker. Somehow he doubted that even death in a desperate battle would have won affection or respect from Stuart Reed. Trip just couldn't understand it. Mal was - had been - so easy to love, so loving in return, so worthy to be loved.
It was usually Malcolm who was the pessimistic one, but on this last voyage it had been Trip who had been uneasy from the start. By now, Trip was an experienced ship's captain (husband or not, Malcolm would have grounded him if he hadn't been). His ship, Starfleet's flagship, had the best engines, the best weaponry and the best crew in the fleet. So how could he explain to his admiral, to the man he dearly loved and to a proud Brit that he thought the ship's name was a bad omen? How could he be expected to be taken seriously talking like that at any time much less when the ship's name was Victory?
As the mission wore on and the hunt for the Romulan fleet lengthened, Trip's uneasiness had grown. He knew Malcolm had always been fascinated by military history, particularly British naval history. Hell, he'd even taught him to like it, and Trip had never considered history his strong suit. Malcolm had been able to show him its practical applications in modern space battles, something the instructors at the Academy had been spectacularly unable to achieve. That being said, it just seemed to Trip that Malcolm had become obsessed with the life, the battles and the death of Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson. Night after night, after Trip had made one last inspection of his ship and had come to flag quarters to turn in, he'd found Malcolm sitting in bed reading a biography of Nelson, a monograph on the battle of the Nile, a treatise on the battle of Cape St. Vincent or a book on the battle of Trafalgar. Malcolm always politely asked if the light was bothering him. Trip always lied and said he was fine. It wasn't his place to tell the Admiral he couldn't read in his own bed, and Trip couldn't bring himself to leave for his own quarters. Something, he didn't know what, was telling him that their time together was running out.
October 21, 2194 (Earth Standard), a day that will live in infamy or glory, depending on how one looks at it, had started off routinely enough, admiral and captain working together in companionable silence in the admiral's ready room. Malcolm looked up from the report he was reading. "Captain, if you are not otherwise engaged this evening, the other British-born officers of this ship and I would be honored if you would join us for dinner."
Trip had to smile at Malcolm's formality even after so many years together. "Love to," he answered, then thought for a second. "You're not havin' somethin' called 'bubble and squeak' or 'bangers and mash' or anything else with weird names like that, are ya?"
Malcolm laughed. "It's entirely up to Chef, of course, but I shouldn't think so, particularly when I tell him you'll be attending."
Trip went back to work, but then another question came to mind. "What's this for, Mal? Your birthday was last month. Guy Fawkes Day is next month, not that you'd have a dinner for that. You'd have live fire exercises and evict Mr. Rose from Weapons and Tactical in order to take part in them yourself." He paused for a moment. "Queen's birthday?"
"Rank has its privileges, Trip," Malcolm smiled. "And no, the Queen's birthday is in June. Today is Trafalgar Day." Malcolm went on to explain about the ritual dinner, but Trip didn't hear him. The tiny voice in the back of his head, the one he knew he should always listen to, had just screamed, "NO!" He felt cold all over and for the first time understood what Grandma Tucker had meant when she said she felt like someone had just walked on her grave.
Sure enough, the feeling of foreboding had been justified, for within the hour they received a message from the Hood, a fast frigate running recognizance out ahead of the fleet. "Enemy in sight." Several high frequency, narrow band, burst transmissions followed giving the course, speed, and strength of the Romulan fleet, but the last transmission had been garbled, and Communications had not been able to raise the ship again. Malcolm had the information relayed to Shran who was commanding the Andorian fleet. While some Andorians served in Starfleet, the Imperial Guard maintained its own forces that frequently worked in concert with Starfleet to the benefit of both. Relations between Shran and Reed were particularly good because a firm foundation of trust had been built up over the years. It was decided between them that they would try to bring the Romulans to battle at star chart sector Green 135.
Malcolm then called a council of war with his captains. Most, like Trip and Travis Mayweather, commanding the Yorktown, had served with him for years, knew his expectations and considered themselves a band of brothers. Scenarios were discussed, but what it came down to was that a captain couldn't go wrong in his admiral's eyes if he aggressively engaged the enemy and fought his ship well.
Malcolm took Travis aside as the captains were being beamed back aboard their ships. "I'd be most grateful if you'd take good care of your ship, Captain. I shouldn't fancy being the second British commander to lose Yorktown," he said with a slight smile.
"I'll do my best, sir," Travis acknowledged. "I have Lieutenant Shran at Weapons and Tactical. He's always making improvements to the weapons systems. Drives my chief engineer straight up the nearest bulkhead with his incessant demands for 'more power'." Begging the Admiral's pardon, but he puts me in mind of the Weapons and Tactical officer we had on the old Enterprise when I was just a helmsman." Travis' dark eyes glittered in amusement. "Not to mention he has a healthy dose of his father's attitude."
"I shan't worry then, Travis. Godspeed." The transporter energized, and Travis disappeared in a cascade of shimmering lights.
Starfleet's armada came upon the Romulan fleet a bit sooner than expected. Corrected coordinates were transmitted to Shran who vowed to make all available speed but advised he doubted he would be able to bring his ships up in under 30 minutes. Until then, Malcolm's command would be outnumbered, outgunned and alone. Nonetheless, Malcolm had been ordered to bring about a general fleet engagement, if practicable. His civilian masters in the Federation Council believed, as Malcolm did himself, that the only way to bring the war to a successful conclusion was to destroy the Romulan fleet. Malcolm believed in his people, his ships and their weapons; he trusted Shran and the Imperial Guard, and he had been painfully taught as a child that Reeds obey orders and Reeds don't run. He believed they could manage for those 30 minutes. He ordered his fleet: "Engage the enemy."
Malcolm always led from the front and never ordered one of his captains to do something he would not be willing to do himself; thus, Victory led one van of the Federation's fleet into the Romulan line. While the days of a ship flying an admiral's pennant were long gone, it was no secret, even to the Romulans, that Victory was Starfleet's flagship and that the commanding admiral was aboard. This made Victory a prime target, and the ship was soon taking fire from all sides. The other ships helped Victory when they could, especially Yorktown, but for the most part, they had their hands full as well.
Trip knew something had gone radically wrong in Engineering even before the report was made to the bridge that the warp drive was down and all that remained was auxiliary power from the impulse engine. With maneuverability suddenly severely restricted and shields and weapons systems failing, captain or not, there was only one place Trip wanted to be, one place where he felt he would be truly useful. He glanced at Malcolm who merely nodded and mouthed the word, "Go!"
When Trip got to Engineering, Commander MacKenzie, his chief engineer, gave him the damage report. It was bad, but the engineering staff was working quickly and purposefully with no signs of panic. Trip knew a few tricks and shortcuts to take to get the warp drive back on line in under the advertised start-up time, techniques that had somehow never made it into the manufacturer's manual. He and his team concentrated on the warp core. He left MacKenzie and Lieutenant Rose and their teams to deal with the shields and weapons.
Trip and his team worked furiously to make the needed repairs and had started Trip's patented abbreviated initiation sequence. Trip was aware the ship was still taking heavy fire, but he thought they would make it. He'd ordered a crewman to contact the bridge. "Tell the Admiral that he only has to hold on for 5 more minutes and he'll have full power."
Trip had turned his attention back to the warp core, was watching the readouts carefully and making minute adjustments to the intermix ratios when the crewman informed him, with deep concern in his voice, "Bridge doesn't answer, sir."
The minute the warp drive was solidly back on line, Trip was off for the bridge like a shot. He hoped that it was merely that communication relays had gone down; but he was an engineer, he knew what redundancies existed, especially for the bridge, and he knew there would be more to it than that. The little voice in the back of his head told him he wasn't going to like how much more.
When he got to the bridge, Damage Control was already working to clear the debris. Nonetheless, he could only gape at the damage in shock. He felt like his mind was swimming in molasses as he tried to make sense of what he saw. He found it particularly unnerving that the view screen was blank. No matter, he tried to tell himself. Malcolm had made them practice running on sensors only. He had said if submariners of the Royal Navy could do it, then Starfleet bloody well could. He heard a crewman telling him that Commander Hardy, the first officer, had things well in hand on the auxiliary bridge and that Shran and his fleet were up and engaged. He could tell that the amount of fire his ship was taking had dropped dramatically. He noted that the command chair seemed undamaged. Malcolm should be fine if he'd stayed there, but Malcolm didn't always stay there; in fact, whenever Trip came on the bridge, Malcolm would cede the seat to him. He was the ship's captain after all. Malcolm would stroll about the bridge, often pausing at the Weapons and Tactical station. He and Mr. Rose had come to an early understanding after a dismal performance on a combat simulation. Malcolm was not a backseat driver; he would intervene only if his assistance was requested. This station was simply the place where he felt the most comfortable. The memory caused Trip to turn his attention to Weapons and Tactical. To his horror, he found that the station no longer existed. The console was completely blown and part of the bulkhead had come down on it. It was then that he saw the discretely covered body and realized that the crewman giving him the damage report had never once mentioned the Admiral.
Trip tried to fight the panic as he headed toward the body. He brusquely interrupted the crewman, "Where is Admiral Reed?"
The crewman seemed confused. "He's in sickbay, sir. I assumed you'd already been told." Trip saw the distress in the crewman's eyes. Was it merely because he had made a mistake or was it something more? What else hadn't he been told? In the meantime, the crewman seemed to have gotten a handle on the situation. He gestured toward the covered body. "That's Mr. Rose, sir. I understand he did his best to protect the Admiral when all hell broke loose up here." The crewman actually blushed. "Pardon my language, sir. The last I heard, the Admiral was conscious, breathing and talking when they took him to sickbay." Trip tried to relax - that sounded like Mal - but there was still a look in the crewman's eyes that he found disturbing.
Trip fought back the desire to rush to sickbay. If Mal was anything even remotely resembling his usual "fine", then he'd be expecting a fairly detailed report on the course of the battle and the state of the ship. He'd best head to the auxiliary bridge for a word with Mr. Hardy first.
Malcolm lay quietly on the biobed in sickbay, his left hand holding the device that would release more pain medication into his system upon demand. Pinned to the blanket in the vicinity of his left hand was the device that would summon the chief medical officer, Dr. Beatty, although Beatty had, against Malcolm's wishes, assigned a corpsman to attend him. He could hear the hiss of the oxygen in the mask over his face. Malcolm had known, even before Dr. Beatty had gently confirmed it, that this time he was not "fine" and that he would never be "fine" again, at least not in this space/time continuum. He struggled to remember what, after everything he had survived, overcome or escaped in the past, had finally brought him to the end of his life. It was important for him to know, even if he couldn't explain why, even if it made no sense.
He remembered acquiescing to Trip's unspoken plea to be released to Engineering. He remembered the ship taking a tremendous beating such that Mr. Rose had finally requested his assistance at Weapons and Tactical. He'd never actually gotten the chance to assist, though. A salvo from a Romulan warbird had rocked the ship and taken out the view screen. He'd fought to maintain his balance in front of the Weapons and Tactical console. Both he and Mr. Rose had heard the ominous hum of feedback in the unit. Rose had pushed him away as the console exploded in what, for Malcolm, had indeed been a blinding flash. He'd felt the searing burns on his upper body but knew that Rose had suffered the worst of it. As he sprawled on the deck, he'd heard part of the bulkhead come down, had felt it mangle his outstretched right arm and pin him to the deck. The pain had overwhelmed him.
The next thing he remembered was the corpsman's quick, professional examination. The corpsman had explained that it was vital to get him to sickbay as soon as possible to treat the plasma burns and that the easiest way to do that, to free him from the debris, would be to complete the amputation of his right arm. He'd said "yes" without giving it much thought, after all Nelson had lost his right arm at a much younger age and had remained on active duty, and that at a time when functional prosthetics did not exist. Try as he might, he couldn't remember if he had been given an anesthetic. He certainly didn't recall the pain he was already in changing in any way, although perhaps he had cried out. He remembered the corpsman apologizing for hurting him. He remembered being moved. He remembered arriving in sickbay. He remembered Dr. Beatty telling him that the flash burns from the explosion had destroyed his eyes. He remembered Beatty telling him that the plasma burns were too extensive to be compatible with survival, that the best he could do would be to keep him comfortable until . . .
Like usual, he had had to fight for what he wanted which was to be kept conscious as long as possible. He had to know what was happening to his fleet, his ship and his people. He wanted desperately to say goodbye to Trip personally and properly. He'd left a recorded farewell message, of course, but he wanted to hear Trip's voice and to feel his touch just once more. He wanted Beatty and all of his staff to concentrate on the patients they could save and just leave him be.
As time passed, however, Malcolm wondered where Trip was. Was the battle going that badly? Was Victory's damage so severe? Had no one told him of his injuries? Worse yet, had Trip himself been severely injured or killed? Would Beatty and his staff purposefully keep that information from him? God, not both of us, he thought. He had always known that his orders could mean death for himself and others - that was the nature of war and of command - but he'd always been able to convince himself, at least until today, that somehow he could keep Trip safe. He fought down the desire to send for him and acknowledged to himself that it was perhaps the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. Trip would come when he could. It would dishonor both of them to compel his presence before then.
It had taken a good hour for Trip to get things sorted out on Victory and to form a coherent idea of how the battle was progressing, a good hour before he felt he could honorably give in to his desire to see Mal, a good hour to prepare himself to face his fears. When he entered sickbay, Dr. Beatty saw him immediately. He turned the care of the patient he was attending over to a corpsman and took Trip aside. "Captain, there are some things you need to know before you see the Admiral," Beatty said as gently as possible. Of course, there really is no good way to tell someone that a person he has loved heart and soul for the better part of 40 years will be dead before the day is done.
Trip stood silently beside Malcolm's biobed and struggled to get his emotions under control before he tried to speak. As much as he had wanted to see Mal's beautiful blue-gray eyes, he was actually glad that they were bandaged and that Mal couldn't see him. He knew that the look on his face was one of horror despite Beatty's warning. He knew his own eyes were haunted with the knowledge of what was to come. He knew furtive tears still managed to escape no matter how often he cuffed them away. He sought for a place where he could touch Mal without hurting him or disturbing the monitors and treatment lines. Finally, hesitantly, he put his hand on Malcolm's left shoulder.
"Trip?" Malcolm's voice was low and harsh. It was clearly quite painful for him to speak.
"I'm here, darlin'. How ya doin'?" Trip kicked himself mentally. "What a stupid thing to ask! He's dying is how he's doing, ya jerk!" Trip had never been good at this. He found he couldn't say more. He hated how his voice sounded. Instead, he slightly increased the pressure of his hand on Malcolm's shoulder.
"Not so fine this time, I'm afraid." Malcolm struggled a bit to breathe before he continued, "Do you have a report for me, Captain?"
Malcolm's question about "business" seemed to flip a switch in another part of Trip's brain. He found he had no difficulty imparting the requested information. "We've destroyed 12-14 of the Romulan warbirds." He knew that wasn't quite accurate. They'd outright destroyed maybe half that number and disabled the rest. The Romulans had blown those up themselves. They hadn't bothered to rescue the crews first and had refused any aid from either Starfleet or the Imperial Guard.
"And our people, Trip? What have we lost?"
"Akagi, Potemkin and Bonhomme Richard are done for, though most of the crews were brought off. Shran's lost Kumari again and 'Fields of Fire'." Trip never could pronounce the Andorian name of the latter ship and settled for the translation. "The fate of the crews is still unclear. The Jhamel has taken some hits but is no worse off than us. Victory will get us home, Mal, I promise ya, even if it takes the last roll of duct tape and the last stick of chewin' gum we got." Almost as an afterthought he added, "Yorktown's in better shape than we are. Shran's boy is pretty damn good. Almost as good as you were at his age." His comment was rewarded by a slight smile from Malcolm.
Trip's comlink beeped, and Commander Hardy reported, "Captain, General Shran says we can expect some company shortly. He says there's three warbirds trying to do an end run around us. He's sending General Telev and the Tel'kien over to give us a hand, and Captain Mayweather says he'll be by directly."
"See to Victory, Trip. I'll be fine for awhile yet." Malcolm strove valiantly to hide his pain and hoped that his last words to Trip wouldn't turn out to be a lie.
Victory came under intense fire again. Malcolm, despite his pain, struggled to sense how well the weapons systems were responding. Under normal circumstances he could do this as well as Trip could assess the engines. As the attending corpsman made sure that Malcolm was secured to the biobed, he heard the Admiral murmur, "Victory! Victory!How you distract my poor brain!"
As time passed, Malcolm found he was grateful that Dr. Beatty had insisted on assigning the corpsman to him. He hadn't wanted to be trouble to anyone, had not wanted to use his rank to unfair advantage when so many others with a better prognosis were hurt, but he finally had to admit that he needed help and was glad to have it. One minute he felt desperately hot and wanted a cool drink or ice chips and to be fanned. The next minute he was freezing and wanted another warmed blanket put over his lower body. He found the hiss of the oxygen to be deeply annoying, particularly since it didn't seem to make breathing any easier. He tried always to remember to say "please" and "thank you", but he was getting so tired and knew that sometimes he forgot.
In time, the firing dwindled and Victory seemed to be staying on an even keel. Trip suddenly burst into the cubicle. "Ya did it, Mal! They're runnin'! They've turned tail, and they're skedaddlin' back where they came from, what's left of 'em! We haven't lost another ship and neither has Shran!"
Malcolm smiled weakly. "Trip, listen to me." He said it as strongly as he could to get the ebullient Trip's attention. "There's an ion storm coming, I can feel it. The fleet must stay together. Don't go haring after them. Stay together. Look after one another. This is my last order to you. From now on, you work to Shran. Thank God I have done my duty!"
The momentary joy Trip had taken in what he considered to be Malcolm's great victory fled as he realized just had ashen the usually pale Malcolm had become, how dusky his usually pink, sweet lips. Malcolm finally pushed the oxygen mask off his face. For what he wanted now, it was more hindrance than help. "Trip, please don't jettison me." His voice was little more than a painful whisper. It was the first time Trip could remember Mal ever sounding like he was begging, and it tore at his heart.
"Never, darlin'. Don't you worry none; Victory and I will take you home. Ya got my word on it."
"Kiss me, Trip."
Trip leaned over and very gently kissed Malcolm on the lips. Dr. Beatty had come into the cubicle and had noted that both Malcolm's respiratory rate and heart rate had significantly fallen. He unobtrusively removed the monitoring devices and treatment lines. Trip understood what this meant. He didn't want Mal to think that he had had to order him to kiss him, so he leaned over again and kissed him ever so lightly on his forehead.
"Who's there?" Malcolm's voice was barely audible.
"It's me, darlin'. It's Trip."
"God bless you, Trip."
Beatty and the corpsman had left the cubicle. Trip pulled up the corpsman's vacated chair and sat to Malcolm's left, his hand now over Malcolm's. After a few minutes, Trip heard Malcolm whisper one last time, "Thank God I have done my duty." With a quiet sigh, Malcolm's soul left his ravaged body.
Trip knew his beloved Mal was now beyond any further physical or emotional pain. Still holding Malcolm's hand, he put his head on Malcolm's chest and cried until he thought there could be no more tears. It wasn't fair! Mal had just won a tremendous battle, had saved Earth, and as far as Trip was concerned, was the greatest English admiral since Nelson, but he wouldn't get to enjoy a moment of acclaim or savor a second of satisfaction. Trip wasn't sure that in all his life he ever had. When Mal was little, Stuart Reed had set the prerequisites for his love so high that no matter how hard he tried, Mal could never meet them, and eventually Stuart had disowned him. He'd been left to always doubt the merits of his accomplishments, to doubt his own worth, and Trip wasn't sure, even now, that all of his years of love for Mal had remedied that, if it could even be remedied. And now it was too late to either remedy or to know.
Trip sat in Commander MacKenzie's office in Engineering and tried for at least the sixth time to record the log entry. He knew it would be played on all the news channels on Earth and probably placed in the archive of sound recordings in the Library of Congress, so he had to get it right in order to honor Mal. He sighed deeply and pressed the button, "Partial firing continued until 1630 hours, when a victory having been reported to the Right Honorable Lord Reed, K.B., Fleet Admiral, he died of his wounds." He stopped the recording and played it back. Yes, this time would do. This time he sounded sad but professional. Now he could turn his attention to getting Victory and Mal home as promised. He thought the battle was over; he had no idea that another was about to begin, no idea of how hard it would be to fulfill his promise.