Author's note: Written for Drown Malcolm Month.

Malcolm surveyed the milling aliens in the large room with a sense of unease. Strategically positioned floor-to-ceiling mirrors served to make the space seem even larger than it was. In addition to the six members of the landing party, there must be more than two hundred aliens in attendance. How was he to keep track of everyone in this alien version of a carnival fun house?

This was supposed to be a celebration, and as such, there shouldn't be any trouble except for the occasional cultural misunderstanding which, hopefully, could be smoothed over. But what worried him was that their alien hosts were already exhibiting all the signs of extreme inebriation. The party had apparently started well before the Enterprise officers had arrived.

He looked anxiously at the captain, who appeared amused and said, "Cheer up, Malcolm. Not all our first contacts have been cause for celebration. At least this time, no one wants to take a swing at us."

Not yet, Malcolm thought dourly as Jon moved off to join Trip, who was in an animated discussion with one of the aliens.

In Malcolm's experience, drunks often started fights, since their inhibitions as well as their judgment were clouded by the alcohol. That was especially true if those imbibing turned surly while drinking. So far, it looked like their hosts were of another variety, however: the so-happy-they're-slobbering type. Malcolm grimaced in disgust. Happy drunks tended to want to touch, as evidenced by Trip's new friend who had just thrown his arm around the engineer's shoulders. These aliens didn't seem to have any prohibitions against physical contact. Cultural differences or not, he'd keep an eye on the members of the landing party, particularly T'Pol and Hoshi, to make sure they weren't unduly bothered.

Malcolm let his gaze wander around the big room, looking for potentially dangerous situations for his cremates. Jon was now talking to the alien leader, a man of about the captain's height but heavier, with a splotchy complexion and a bulbous nose. Malcolm was reminded of W.C. Fields, an early 20th century American actor who had been notorious for his voracious intake of hard liquor. Looking around, he saw that all the aliens had reddened cheeks and noses, but whether that was normal for them or was a result of their drinking, he didn't know.

He caught sight of Travis weaving through the throng towards him. The helmsman's gait was definitely unsteady.

"Hey, Malcolm!" Travis greeted him. "Have you tried any of this yet?"

Malcolm eyed the fluted glass Travis held up. The pinkish liquid gave off the bitingly sharp scent of alcohol. "No, and I don't intend to."

Travis frowned. "Why not? It's pretty good. This is my third glass."

Malcolm studied the young man's face, noting his glazed eyes and the beads of sweat on his brow. "We've only been here fifteen minutes. Don't you think you ought to pace yourself?"

Travis shrugged, the motion made exaggerated by the amount of alcohol already in his system. "Every time I finish a drink, one of our hosts shoves another glass in my hand. It seems rude to refuse."

Before Malcolm could say anything, one of the aliens -- this one shorter than he and with even more pronounced red cheeks than their leader -- approached with a tray of the pink drinks. He held the tray toward Malcolm, his intent obvious. Travis's words fresh in his mind, Malcolm reluctantly reached out and took one of the glasses. Malcolm cautiously sniffed the contents as the alien moved off. There was a sweet aroma underlying the overpowering smell of alcohol.

"It's made from a fruit grown here," Travis supplied helpfully.

"If it's local, that means the natives probably have developed a tolerance for it and we haven't," Malcolm said. "Go easy on that stuff."

"Sure." Travis smiled hazily at him and wandered off.

Malcolm, glass in hand, went back to keeping tabs on his fellow officers. T'Pol had her back to one of the mirrors as she talked with a pair of aliens. Actually, as far as he could tell, she was listening while the others were doing all the talking. As if sensing his concern, T'Pol's gaze shifted to him. He gave her a fractional nod to let her know that everything was all right, and she returned the gesture. He saw a fleeting look of distaste cross her features as one of the aliens patted her arm. The alien pointed to her full glass and motioned for her to drink. The Vulcan took a small sip, which seemed to satisfy her companions for the moment.

Jon was still in conversation with the alien leader. Malcolm wasn't sure, but he thought the captain's eyes looked brighter than usual, but it was difficult to tell from this distance. As he watched, the alien with the tray of drinks took the captain's empty glass and gave him another full of the pink alcohol.

Nearby, Hoshi was seated at a table with another of the aliens. Their drinks pushed to the side, they were head to head as they studied something on a data padd. Probably teaching each other their respective languages, Malcolm thought. But Hoshi and her alien companion seemed to be the only ones ignoring their drinks. From the corner of his eye, he saw the alien with the beverage tray heading back in his direction. Not wishing to insult their hosts by refusing another drink, Malcolm moved off toward Trip. Both the engineer and the alien with him seemed to be swaying. As he neared them, Malcolm detected slurring in Trip's voice.

"'Thas a shame," he heard Trip say.

"We haf do sum ting to remidie...remadee...fix it," the alien insisted, his head bobbing.

Malcolm didn't know if the alien's speech was supposed to sound like that, or if he too had been drinking overly much. If the alien had been human, Malcolm could have sworn he was so far into his cups that he was on the verge of passing out.

"Malcolm!" Trip called out to him. "Just the person we need to--" He paused to carefully enunciate the next word. "--remedy our problem."

"You need someone to take you back to Enterprise so you can sleep it off?" Malcolm asked dryly.

"Nah!" Trip said. "We need somebody to get some more of this!" He hoisted his glass, which was almost empty.

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "There are plenty of waiters around--"

"Nah!" Trip said dismissively. "They just opened the last casket..." He giggled. "...I mean cask of this stuff. We need to go get some more."

"Shouldn't our hosts--" Malcolm began, but both Trip and the alien shook their heads so vigorously that he thought they'd fall over. They probably would have, he realized, if they hadn't been holding each other up.

"Nope," Trip drawled. "We got to do it."

"We do?" Malcolm asked.

"Yessssss," slurred out the alien. "Else-wise, there be no more here."

Trip nodded sharply in agreement. "Yeah. When it's gone, it's gone."

Malcolm didn't know what they expected him to do about the situation. "Our hosts should be in charge of that," he said.

"Thas me," the alien said, poking himself in the chest. "My responsbliety...responsarbil..."

"Responsibility," Trip offered.

The alien smiled and said, "My job."

The alien didn't look like he could lift another glass of the alcohol, much less a whole cask. Malcolm had seen what resembled large beer kegs at the main serving area. One of the gray metal casks, if placed on end, was almost as tall as he was.

"So," Trip said, "in the interest of interstellar relations, I said we'd help."

Now Malcolm understood. They needed a pack mule. This was one of those times when it would be easier to go along with Trip than to argue. He sighed. If he was lucky, they'd have some type of cart to move the casks. "Exactly where are these casks?"

"Follow me!" the alien declared, carefully taking his arm from around Trip's shoulders before moving off on wobbly legs toward one of the exits.

Trip, his support removed, swayed so far to one side that he appeared in danger of toppling over. Malcolm quickly grabbed his arm to prevent such a mishap. Trip gave him a grateful smile. "Thanks, Malcolm. I didn't realize this stuff was so potent."

Malcolm murmured noncommittally, set his own untouched drink on a convenient table, and led Trip after the alien. As they exited the room into a long corridor, he speculated that if all his cremates became so drunk that they passed out, he might be able to take the liberty of beaming them directly back to the ship instead of carrying them, one by one, to the shuttlepod. Taking the scenario a step farther, he reasoned that he could tell the captain -- after Jon sobered up, that is -- that he'd perceived the situation as a medical emergency and was only trying to get them into Doctor Phlox's care immediately. Who knew what effects the alien alcohol might have on a human body besides the obvious?

Trip, meanwhile, was exhibiting one of the classic symptoms of drunkenness. Even with Malcolm's help, he was unable to walk a straight line. The security officer was reminded of old seagoing destroyers dropping depth charges as they zig-zagged over the position of an enemy submarine. Trip suddenly lurched to one side, and Malcolm had to yank him back to keep him from falling.

Luckily, they didn't have much farther to go. The alien had stopped in front of a door a short distance down the corridor and was waiting for them. "This it," the alien said happily. He pressed a button next to the door, which slid open.

"Wow!" Trip breathed as he craned his neck to see as they followed the alien inside. "Would ya look at that!"

Wow indeed, Malcolm thought. The room, about as big as main engineering, was lined from floor to ceiling with metal casks stacked on top of each other. The central part of the room was clear but for one cask, sitting upright, which was hooked up to clear tubing that snaked up to the upper level of the storage area. More tubing was strung up in a confusing, thick tangle near the ceiling. At intervals around the room, ladders led up to a catwalk that allowed access to valves and switches which apparently operated the flow of liquid in the tubes. Either this place was right next to where the alcohol was distilled, or the aliens transported the liquid from the location where it was made and decanted it into the casks here.

"Are these full?" Malcolm asked, gesturing toward the stacked casks as the alien shut the door behind them.

The alien shook his head, making his reddish cheeks flop like a basset hound's jowls. "Not yet. Empty now," he said, then hiccuped. "Ish better to wait to put in--" The alien, apparently unable to articulate the word, waved his hand at the cask in the middle of the room. He leaned towards them as if to share a secret. "Loses potency if not."

Like the pink alcohol needed to be any stronger, Malcolm thought, just barely refraining from rolling his eyes.

"Come on," Trip said, breaking free from Malcolm's grip on his upper arm. "Should be a piece of cake to figure out how to do this."

Malcolm trailed Trip to a ladder leading up to a series of valves. As Trip put his foot on the bottom rung, Malcolm stopped him by grabbing his arm again. "Do you think it's a good idea for you to climb up there?"

Trip tilted his head back to look above him and almost fell over backwards. Malcolm's other hand shot out to steady him, and Trip gave him a wry look over his shoulder. "As long as I don't do that again, I should be all right."

"You're in no condition to be climbing ladders!" Malcolm said.

"Malcolm," Trip said huffily, his alcohol-tinged breath making Malcolm recoil. "Don't make me pull rank on you."

After a moment, Malcolm let go of his arm and nodded, taking a step back. At least Trip ought to fall off the ladder at a relatively low height, for Malcolm seriously doubted the engineer would make it past the fourth rung without losing his balance. If he knocked himself out, Malcolm could legitimately call Enterprise to use the transporter to get Trip back to the ship. Then he'd just have to worry about the rest of the landing party. He hoped this errand didn't take much longer as he fretted about the captain and the others at the celebration.

He cast an anxious glance at the alien who was busy adjusting the tubing attachment to the cask in the middle of the floor. When he looked back to Trip, he was startled to see him already halfway up the ladder. Trip made it to the top without a mishap and stepped onto the catwalk. He twisted around to look at them.

"Which valve?" Trip called down to the alien.

The alien pointed to Trip's left, where a number of valves with attached tubing were connected to the wall. Trip scratched his head as he visually traced a line of tubing from one of the valves up to the ceiling. "Not that one," Malcolm heard him mutter.

"Must be all gone at reception by now," the alien called up to him. "Hurry up!"

Malcolm was just about to start up the ladder to help Trip when the engineer came a decision. Instead of opening a valve, he reached over and pulled a large lever embedded in the wall.

There was a loud rumble and the floor beneath Malcolm's feet shook as heavy machinery engaged somewhere very close by. "What did you do?" he yelled at Trip.

"Had to throw this switch before anything will come out in the tubing," Trip yelled back.

Malcolm was about to make a scathing comment about not messing with things you don't know how to operate when there was a tremendous screech of metal against metal.

"Oh, no!" cried the alien. "Not again!"

In growing consternation, Malcolm demanded, "What not again?"

The alien didn't appear to hear him. Instead, he was staring aghast at one cask-lined wall. Following his gaze, Malcolm saw pink liquid oozing out around the bottom row of casks. A trickle at first, the flow gained in strength until it was quickly rushing across the floor toward them. In addition to the anxiety of being a room that was rapidly filling with liquid and making his aquaphobia kick in, the strong smell of alcohol was enough to make Malcolm's head swim.

"What's going on?" he yelled.

"Access door behind casks," the alien responded in horror. "For cleaning storage tank when empty. Not empty now, but soon will be if not stopped."

Underscoring his comments, the casks where the alcohol was appearing toppled forward. As the alien and Malcolm dodged the tumbling containers, a door was revealed behind where they had been stacked. The door was of the type that could retract into the walls, and although it was only open about three centimeters, the force with which the pink alcohol was gushing out told Malcolm that there was a very large quantity of the stuff on the other side. It was already up to his ankles.

The alien tore his gaze from the rapidly rising alcohol to look imploringly at Trip on the catwalk. "Stop it!"

Trip, who had taken in the situation in a glance, turned back to the lever. "This ought to do it," he called out as he slammed the lever back into its original position.

Malcolm saw the door holding back the alcohol grind open another two centimeters or so.

"No!" screamed the alien, leaping for the closest ladder and scrambling up. He made it almost all the way to the top before his foot slipped and he fell. His fall was cushioned by alcohol that now came up to the second rung on the ladders.

Malcolm, who had been about to climb another ladder, threw up his hands to shield his face from the spray created by the impact. "Trip!" he called out as he waded over to help the alien to his feet. "That wasn't it!"

"I know! I know!" the engineer yelled back. "I'm workin' on it!"

Malcolm yanked the alien to his feet and turned him in the direction of the closest ladder. "Get up there and stop this!"

"I try," the alien wailed as he slogged through alcohol now hip deep. "Last time, not work."

Not liking the sound of that, Malcolm forced himself toward the partially open door against the strong current of alcohol, even though he wanted nothing more than to climb out of this alcoholic maelstrom. But if Trip was having trouble shutting off the flow, maybe there was some mechanism by the door that would shut it, and he was the closest to it. Shoving floating empty casks out of his path, he made his way to the door. By the time he reached it, the alcohol was up to his waist. To his dismay, there was nothing resembling a control panel anywhere near the door.

He was just turning toward the closest ladder when he heard another shriek of metal. The door jerked open another ten centimeters, and he realized that whatever Trip was doing, he was doing it wrong. The resulting wave of pink alcohol washed over him. He lost his footing and went under. He shut his eyes and held his breath as he tried desperately to surface, but something slammed into him. The force of the impact expelled the air from his lungs. His body demanding oxygen, he inhaled before he could stop himself. The burning stuff went up his nose and down his throat, making him gag. His mouth opened by reflex, but all that did was allow more of the liquid inside.

His clothing was soaked, his boots were filling with liquid. He knew he was sinking even as he was buffeted by the rushing alcohol. The brilliant explosions of light he saw against the back of his tightly shut eyelids were beginning to fade, and he along with them. Within moments, it was too difficult to fight against the cold wetness that surrounded him. His movements slowed, then stopped entirely.

He had one last thought before losing consciousness: He'd always despaired that his death would be by drowning, but he'd always had thought that if it happened, it would be in water.

Malcolm came to with a start. Expecting to inhale some of that alien alcohol, he was surprised that the only thing his lungs pulled in was air. As his rapid heartbeat slowed, he blinked and looked around, trying to get his bearings. Curtain partitions. A Starfleet-issue blanket covering him. The smell of antiseptic. He was in sickbay. How--?

"How you feelin'?"

The familiar drawl came from the other side of the biobed. Malcolm turned his head to find Trip standing there, looking down at him in concern.

"Alive," Malcolm croaked.

Trip helped him sit up. "Thought you were a goner there for a minute."

"Me, too," Malcolm said. "What happened?"

"Aw, they had a short in one of their connections," Trip began, only to have Malcolm cut him off.

"No, I mean to me."

"Oh. You drowned."

Malcolm stared at him. "Obviously not, since I'm here talking to you."

"Honest," Trip said. "You did. You drowned."

Footsteps came from the other side of the curtain, which was quickly drawn back. "Mister Reed!" Doctor Phlox said with a bright smile. "Good to see you back among the living."

Malcolm's brow furrowed. "So I did actually drown?"

"Yes, you did." The physician moved to check some of the readings on the monitor above the bed. "If it weren't for Commander Tucker's quick thinking, you'd be permanently dead."

Malcolm switched his astounded stare to Trip, who was trying to look modest and failing miserably. "What did you do?" Malcolm asked.

"Well, I was in no shape to climb down there and get you -- probably would have wound up getting myself drowned -- so I used my communicator to contact Enterprise and have you beamed up immediately."

Malcolm's jaw dropped as he realized that Trip had used the very method he'd been half-seriously considering for the other members of the landing party.

Mistaking his reaction, Trip said, "Now, Malcolm, as you're always telling me, there's nothing wrong with using the transporter for people."

Phlox patted Malcolm's shoulder sympathetically. "For all intents and purposes, you were dead when you arrived on the transporter platform. You weren't breathing, for one thing. Some quick mouth-to-mouth and a little CPR took care of that." He paused. "Although there was some rather vile pinkish substance that you expelled."

Malcolm shuddered. There was still a lingering taste of it in his mouth. It was enough to make him swear off any kind of alcohol forever.

As Phlox tucked the blanket more securely around him, Trip said, "Those aliens felt pretty bad about what happened. The cap'n told them we know it was an accident, but they wanted to give you something to make up for it."

Trip turned around and picked something up from the next biobed. When he turned back and held it out, Malcolm couldn't believe what he was seeing. He'd almost been killed by that noxious stuff. Had been killed, if Phlox was to be believed. And now they were giving him a bottle of it?

"They hope you use it to celebrate a special occasion," Trip informed him.

Malcolm closed his eyes and rubbed his pounding temples. Apparently being brought back to life gave you a headache. "There's nothing special enough to induce me to open that," he said fervently.

"You might want to change your mind about that," Phlox said.

Malcolm cracked one eye open to look at the doctor.

"I've run some tests on this substance," Phlox said, pointing to the bottle Trip was still holding. "You ingested more than enough to give yourself a good hangover. Due to its chemical composition, a small glass of it might work wonders on relieving the headache I believe you're beginning to experience. What's the human expression? Hair of the dog?"

Trip chuckled and opened the bottle.

Malcolm groaned. "Go ahead without me. I think I'd rather have the headache."

--the end--