This story may or may not be counted as a Drown Malcolm story. I know, I know, it's late, but better late than never!
Post-Terra Prime story, but not post-TATV. Takes place about a year after "Terra Prime", in 2155.
I don't own Star Trek. Paramount does.
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ANCHOR
"Risa?" Lieutenant Malcolm Reed asked incredulously. "After what happened the last time?"
"You mean what happened to us, or to the captain?" Commander Charles "Trip" Tucker III asked nonchalantly. He opened the bottle of wine he had brought and poured some into each of the two cups before handing one to Malcolm.
Malcolm did not take it right away, glaring at his friend as his face turned slightly red. "You haven't told anyone, have you?"
"I haven't. If I did, we'd never hear the end of it." Malcolm still looked suspicious, but took the glass all the same.
"I hope you haven't spilled the beans either," Trip said as he sat on Malcolm's bunk and Malcolm sat in the desk chair. Before Malcolm could reply, he raised his glass in a toast. "To an uneventful shore leave for everyone."
"Hear, hear." They drank, and then sat in silence for a few moments. "Where're you planning on going?" Malcolm asked.
"I was thinking about skipping the bar this time. Maybe skipping the cities altogether."
"Yeah," Malcolm muttered in agreement.
"There's some parkland a ways in from the coast." Trip handed Malcolm a PADD with something similar to a travel brochure on it, advertising the park. "Seems like the perfect place to go camping."
"It is beautiful, Trip." He passed the PADD back. "Any room for one more to come along?" Malcolm asked in a lightly mocking tone.
Trip made a face, equally joking. "Of course you can come! Why else would I show you the ad?"
"To make me feel miserable?" They shared a quiet laugh over that.
"I'm thinking we're the only ones who can go," Trip said quietly, his face no longer cheerful.
"Why's that?"
"Well, the captain could only wangle eighteen hours a person. They also said we had to come down in three separate groups."
"So we're divided into our shifts," Malcolm guessed.
"Well, that's not so bad," Trip said, trying to brighten up again. "I'll pack some games, a pack of cards," he leaned over to Malcolm conspiratorially. "Maybe even some Andorian ale if I can slip it by the Captain."
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"What about this spot?" Trip put a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun as he looked over at Malcolm, who was inspecting the proposed campsite. Both wore blue jeans and thick long-sleeved shirts, as well as hiking boots from the Quartermaster. The trees, both coniferous and deciduous –or their Risan equivalents– grew thickly. A stream, flowing rather quickly by the sound of it, could be heard nearby. A few sprigs of wildflowers dotted the ground, coloured vivid reds and blues.
"It's a little uneven," Malcolm said, walking around on grass that was partly soft, familiar green stems and partly pricklier turquoise stalks. "And it slopes downhill."
"So?" Trip asked, anxious to unpack. "It doesn't matter."
"It'll matter when you have to sleep uphill," Malcolm replied. "I did enough of that on scout trips when I was a kid."
"So then, Mr Boy Scout, where do you suggest we pitch the tent?"
"Eagle Scout, actually." Malcolm scanned the area. "What about there?" Trip looked toward where he indicated. Up a slight incline was a level area about three metres square, perfect for a tent and campfire.
"Well," Trip pretended to reflect on it seriously. "Why not?" They walked the short distance to the chosen site and got to work right away. "I hope you know how to set this up," Trip said as they pulled the tent bag out of his pack. "I don't think I've been camping since," he thought a little, "hell, since that rogue planet. Remember those pigs, what were they?"
"Drayjin," Malcolm readily supplied. "That wasn't bad cooking they had."
"Don't get your hopes up for anything that compares to it this time," Trip said with a grunt as he tried to pull the tent out of its bag. "I tried to sweet-talk Chef into packing something." Malcolm grabbed the other end of the bag and tugged. "No such luck."
Their conversation was cut off when the tent suddenly shot out of its bag. Malcolm only stumbled back a little, but Trip ended up flat on the ground with the wind knocked out of him.
"Trip," Malcolm said worriedly as he hurried over and helped his friend sit up. "Take deep breaths," he instructed as he stood behind Trip, letting the chief engineer lean back against his legs.
When Trip had the breath to talk, he said quietly, "That went well."
Malcolm smiled that little half smirk of his. "I'll set up the tent. The sunlight won't last forever." Trip sat up, allowing Malcolm to walk over to the rolled-up tent. Trip tried to follow him, but the tactical officer put a hand on his shoulder. "Please, Trip. I can set it up alone. You just need to sit until you get your wind back."
Under normal circumstances Trip would have cajoled and joked his way into forcing Malcolm to let him help, but this time he deferred to his judgment. Besides, the sun was going down pretty quickly, and it would be better to have the tent up before then. He sat quietly while Malcolm unrolled the tent and got the poles out. In about five minutes, Trip had his breath back and the tent was all set up. Even the rain fly and stakes. "Exactly how many times have you gone camping?" Trip asked, not quite believing that one man, even one as diligent as Malcolm, could have set up a tent that quickly. "Between my dad, my brother and me, it would take us around 15 minutes to set up a tent."
"Plenty of scout campouts, not to mention setting up in the rain sometimes," Malcolm said matter-of-factly. He pulled a collapsible shovel out of his backpack.
"And just what are you doing now?" Trip asked bemusedly.
"Digging a fire pit," Malcolm replied. "I don't suppose you're up to finding some rocks to line it with?" Trip was about to retort that he did not need Malcolm to babysit him when he saw an impish light in Malcolm's eyes and in his grin. It was not that often that his friend joked.
"I'll see what I can find," Trip said, taking off at a brisk pace toward the sound of the stream. It was not too wide, but the banks on either side were at least a metre tall. The portion of the stream in front of him was shallow, with pebbles and fist-sized rocks lining the creek bed. He walked alongside the brook until the bank sloped down, and then walked upstream to where the larger rocks were. The water barely reached the top of his toes. As he picked out rocks, Trip thought about what had just passed. As always, Malcolm did his job without complaining or slacking off. But what Malcolm had done back there was not because he was an officer in Starfleet; it was because Trip was Malcolm's best friend. That was a far cry from the buttoned-down, totally reserved officer who had joined the crew five years ago.
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"How late is it?" Trip asked with a yawn as they packed up the board and stones from Go.
"Around 2300," Malcolm replied, managing to stifle the yawn that rose in his throat.
"We could sit up a while longer, maybe some card games," Trip suggested.
"Before that, I need to find a bush," Malcolm said as he stood up, a little sore from sitting so long. "If I don't get back soon, you can send a search party."
"You bet," Trip said sarcastically as Malcolm strolled off. He waited until Malcolm was out of sight before he opened up the zipper of the tent. He crawled over to his backpack and pulled two canteens out. He unscrewed the tops to check—Andorian ale, just like he promised.
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Malcolm was just finishing up when he heard a noise coming from the stream. It sounded like a set of maracas, clinking and rattling. He could hear it quite clearly above the babbling water. He looked behind him. The light of the fire and the lantern they had put near the tent burned clearly. Trip would hear him if he needed help. Besides, an unfamiliar noise on an alien world did not sit well with him. He had to find out what it was.
Turning back to the stream, Malcolm walked slowly, taking care to go as silently as he could. As he approached the drop-off, the noise suddenly stopped. Malcolm stopped moving as well. The sudden silence made the hair on the back of his neck stand. It was all very, very wrong.
Without warning, something pierced his leg. Malcolm dropped to one knee as pain blazed around the spot. His fingers closed on something that felt like a bead. He yanked it out, but before he could look at it or do anything else, a numbing sensation spread throughout his leg and he could no longer move it. He lost his balance and fell off the ledge into the water.
A sharp pain in his forehead told Malcolm that he had cut it on the rocks. The bead was gone, probably drifting downstream. The water was extremely shallow, not more than perhaps four centimetres deep. But the feeling, or lack thereof, in his injured leg spread quickly to the other, then up his torso. He tried to call out to Trip, but the numbness accelerated to overtake his chest, arms, and finally his head. The last sight he saw before his eyes closed was the water. It surrounded him and almost flowed over his head, but he could not lift his head of the water.
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