Disclaimers and confessions: They're from Paramount's toybox. I borrow for pleasure alone. And I've no beta, so I'm to blame for any and all errors. Set in the aftermath of ep 3.19 "Damage" this is pure Malcolm introspection. I've always imagined him feeling like the ultimate gamekeeper turned poacher after the Illyrian theft.
Of Poachers And Pirates
A dozen generations of Reeds must be turning in their watery graves. Piracy. We've fought it since the days of Blackbeard, when Midshipman Patrick Reed won his spurs (and a shed-load of prize money) in the West Indies aboard His Britannic Majesty's frigate Renown. What would he think if he knew his great-great-great-however-many-times grandson had committed an act of naked brigandage against a helpless crew?
I'm not even going to think about the colony. There's only so much self-reproach a man can handle in a day.
Oh, I was only obeying orders. Doing what a Reed male is drilled from infancy to do. It's not my place to question Captain Archer's decisions. I seem to remember expressing my opinions on his democratic style quite forcibly, at a time I didn't expect to live long enough for embarrassment to set in.
Well Malcolm, my lad, you've got what you wanted. An autocratic C.O. And now you're left hunched over a table in a gloomy observation lounge shredding your sin-spotted conscience for doing precisely what Dad and Jonathan Archer combined would expect.
Might is right. Ends justifying means. I never did care for those self-aggrandising maxims, and if I hear either of them again in the next week, I refuse to be held responsible for my actions.
We murdered a group of innocent strangers today. Perhaps Archer can tell himself they might find a way out. We didn't blast them to the Shades, or whatever the Illyrians call Eternity. All we did was take what we needed and run.
People of whom we know nothing. Lost travellers who looked to us for help. In my book, that makes us worse than the Nausicaans. It puts us on a par, morally at least, with the very race we're trying to stop.
It wasn't the kindest analogy to use when Trip tried to jolly me into bosom-buddy Johnny's way of seeing things. And yes, I feel like a bastard for bringing up the pointless murder of his perfectly innocent sister, and all the other equally blameless six million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine human beings he's determined to avenge. In all fairness, if the weapon had struck the British Isles, taking my Madeleine instead of his Elizabeth, maybe I'd find the sacrifice of a few dozen Illyrians worth making too.
God, I hope not!
"They murdered millions, Lieutenant." The use of rank hurt, but not as badly as the stabbing guilt in my guts. "Maybe the Illyrian crew won't make it outta the Expanse. That's too bad. We got six billion of our own to think about, an' that's what the Cap'n was doin', okay?"
"And maybe Degra thought seven million humans was a price worth paying for however-many-billion Xindi he believed humanity threatened?" My voice sounded scratchy; I was horribly afraid I might burst into tears. "Trip, those people have brothers too. You know how they're going to feel about the species that murdered their siblings."
"It hadta be done, Malcolm." The angry colour drained out of his face, and I knew I'd got through at least some of the hard, angry shell he's built up since Lizzie's death was confirmed. The real, compassionate Trip Tucker I know is still buried under all the rubble of grief and rage.
I'm just not sure about the Jonathan Archer I cursed and admired in equal measure.