§2§
Half an hour later it had become hard for Trip to distinguish his own feet. And he had felt a few telling shivers run down his back. Dammit, but maybe it was time to inform Malcolm.
He was about to speak, when Malcolm exclaimed, "There! Finally!" and veered towards the water's edge. "Plenty of it, too," his voice floated back, from some distance off to Trip's left.
Malcolm had – supposedly – just walked a few metres away, but he might as well have been transported off the planet, because as far as Trip was concerned he had disappeared completely. Trip's heart began to thump; without the presence of anyone right there beside him, he was suddenly feeling irrationally alone and vulnerable.
"M--"
Great. And now his tongue seemed unable to form words. Trip felt his breathing accelerate.
"M--Malcolm..."
In the matter of seconds the man was back in front of him. His face was just a blurred oval, but Trip knew exactly what kind of expression would be on it.
"What is it?" Malcolm asked in a taut voice.
Trip saw a shadow move from left to right and back. A hand, being waved in front of him.
"Trip, can you see me?"
"Bare--"
"I beg your pardon?"
Trip squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. "B--barely."
"Oh."
Yeah, well, what did ya think?
"Oh, damn," Malcolm cursed under his breath.
The buzzing of a medical scanner was the next thing Trip knew.
"Your temperature has risen considerably," Malcolm commented in a controlled tone. "I should say your symptoms are unmistakable."
Trip grimaced. No use trying to deny it. "Funderwall." Rolling his eyes, he let out a dramatic sigh. "W--wonderful."
"Indeed."
Malcolm's hand closed around his arm.
"Let me guide you to that tree over there; it's just a few metres off to the right," he said, in the voice of one who was putting his wheels in motion. "I'll collect those bloody plants, and then I'll page Enterprise. Perhaps whoever is left standing in Engineering will have fixed the transporter by now."
"'kay."
Feeling like a swaggering drunk, Trip let Malcolm pull him along and tottered on. He had never really stopped to think what a terrible handicap losing your sight was. The world had suddenly turned into a frightening place.
"The symptoms should revert once Phlox synthesizes that drug," Malcolm was saying, in an awkward attempt at comforting him. "You'll be fine, uhm, eventually."
Malcolm was definitely better at blowing holes in enemy ships than offering verbal support. Trip wondered if the man was aware of how tense his voice was.
"I soap ho. I mean…"
"Yes, yes," Malcolm butted in nervously. "I get it."
Trip groaned: this was bordering on ridiculous. And, actually, he wasn't concerned about the eventually: he was concerned about the now. For here he was, on an alien planet and almost totally disabled. Malcolm had suddenly been weighed down with a lot more responsibility; and, what was worse, he was pretty sure it would take Engineering a good few hours to restore the transporter to working order. That ion storm had done quite a bit of damage to it.
"Here."
Malcolm took his hand and put it to a scaly surface.
"Why don't you sit down against this tree while I get the job done, Commander? I'll try to be quick."
Trip nodded and let himself slide down, with his back against the trunk. He perceived a shadow beside him, and forced a lukewarm smile on his lips. "Rrr--rossi."
"What about him?"
"Sss--sorry."
"Ah. Not your fault."
Something was put into his right hand.
"Here is your canteen," Malcolm said. "You should drink to keep your fluid levels up." Squeezing Trip's shoulder as he stood up again, he muttered, "I won't be long." A moment later he had disappeared from view, leaving Trip alone in his colourful fog.
Trip hugged himself tightly, fighting back the shivers that his rising temperature was causing him. His eyes wanted to drift closed, the tiredness that comes with illness already setting in, and he almost let them – after all, they were of little use to him at the moment – stopping at the last moment: he should make every effort to keep alert, helpless as he was. Malcolm's footsteps had quickly faded away, and the silence was suddenly rather frightening. Here he was, totally alone, unaware of threats that may surround him. Not to mention that if something happened to Malcolm he wouldn't even realise it, let alone be able to help out. Nothing will happen, we're on an uninhabited planet – he told himself, taking a few deep breaths to fight his irrational fear.
Malcolm must have been gone for no longer than ten, fifteen minutes, but it felt like ages. Finally there was the sound of footsteps.
"It's me, Commander."
Trip frowned. Their Armoury Officer never used that deep a timbre without a good reason. Well, the present circumstances probably warranted it.
There was a slow and controlled exhalation as Malcolm lowered himself and re-entered Trip's reduced sight-range.
"Done?" Trip asked, straightening. He'd better keep to monosyllables.
"Yes."
Malcolm, on the other hand, had no need to… Trip waited for more, and when it didn't come he wondered about the negative vibes he was beginning to get. Malcolm was a man of few words, but this seemed a bit too terse even for him. A moment later a pocket was being unzipped and a communicator flicked open.
"Reed to Enterprise."
Malcolm definitely sounded off-colour. Worried. Yeah, worried. Normal, for the man – Trip reassured himself.
T'Pol's voice rang out without delay. "Go ahead, Lieutenant."
"I have the specimens. Has Engineering repaired the transporter?"
"Not yet. They are working at it, but both Lieutenant Hess and Ensign Rostov are now ill. Engineering is severely understaffed. Doctor Phlox and I seem to be immune to the sickness, but it is spreading rapidly among the crew. I need not tell you that the sooner you bring back the medicinal plant the better, Lieutenant."
There was a pause. Trip could not see Malcolm's expression, but he watched him hang his head, and that spoke plenty.
"Commander Tucker has developed a fever, Subcommander," the man said, in a frustrated voice. "His sight and speech are severely impaired. Our way back to the Shuttlepod is going to be slow and difficult."
Trip shook his head. "I'll be okay," he butted in, trying not to sound as tired as he felt. "I'll just need a hit of belt to--" Dammit. A bit of help, a bit of help – not that difficult.
"We have no choice, Mr. Reed," T'Pol came back, in her usual unruffled tone. "The moment the transporter is back online I will inform you, of course."
There was another pause. A dark 'Understood' ended the communication.
Malcolm heaved a breath and let it out slowly. "All right, Commander, we have our orders," he said quietly. "Let me know when you need that… hit of belt."
Trip groaned and shook his head again, laboriously starting to pick himself up. A hand came to rest on his elbow, guiding him, and he was grateful for it, for actually he felt quite wobbly. Sure enough, as soon as he had gained an upright position he almost lost his balance. Malcolm hurried to steady him and Trip ended up grabbing his arm, eliciting a quick intake of breath.
Frowning in surprise, Trip squinted, but Malcolm remained an indistinct shape. Well, he may have a fever, but there had been no mistaking the sound of that.
"What's wrong?" Trip enquired.
"Nothing," was the predictable reply. Malcolm cleared his throat. "It looks like you need that 'bit of help' right now."
"Don't try to play fool with me, Lieutenant." Trip went for his command tone, glad that his tongue was suddenly collaborating. "That was a piss of hain." Yeah, right.
"A piss of what, Commander?"
The smile in Malcolm's voice was unmistakable.
"Y--you know," Trip grunted in frustration. But of course, if it had been a hiss of pain the stubborn man would never admit it.
"Look, I'm fine," Malcolm, indeed, insisted as he took Trip's arm and put it across his shoulders. "You grabbed me too tightly, that's all. Let's stop wasting breath: we'll need all of it." Without another word he started them on their way back.
Trip wasn't at all convinced and wanted to reply that he was no idiot, but he was too sick to argue. He gave up and staggered along rigidly. Seeing nothing but blurred colours and shapes didn't quite make for a relaxed gait. Gawd, he really didn't feel up to a long walk; and his head was killing him.
Maybe twenty minutes later Malcolm stopped abruptly.
"Listen, Commander," he said in a clipped accent which was somewhat spoiled by gasps of breathlessness. "I realise this must be difficult for you, but worry not, I won't let you smash into a tree: so, would you pl-ease stop walking as if I were dragging you to your execution? Or as if your legs were in casts? For heaven's sake, you're making me work twice as hard!"
"Ya wanna cry… try what it's like?" Trip bit back. "I can't see a fig fat… a big bat… a… nothin'!" he grunted, giving up. Wincing, he pressed two fingers on his throbbing temples.
There was a pause and then a muttered apology. "Sorry," Malcolm croaked out. "Are you in pain?"
He still sounded… well, off. Something was fishy, Trip felt sure of it: Malcolm was usually much more in control of himself, especially under pressure. Trip wished he could get the damn man to tell him what was going on with him. Didn't Malcolm realise that it was hard enough for him without having to worry about what else might be wrong?
"Trip?"
At least for once it was Trip and not Commander. "Headache," Trip groaned.
"Let me give you something for it."
There were sounds of Malcolm rummaging through the backpack. Then a cold something was put to Trip's neck; the hiss of a hypospray followed. The waves of pain gradually subsided, and Trip released a slow breath.
"Better?" Malcolm asked quietly and somewhat contritely.
"Yeah."
A canteen was pressed into Trip's hand. "Have some more water."
Trip didn't need to be asked twice. He was quite thirsty, and drank greedily. Now, if only he could collapse somewhere and get a few hours of sleep... He was exhausted and his brain was under water. There was no way he'd make it all the way back to the pod. He needed to convince Malcolm to leave him behind and come back for him once--
"Shall we go?"
Malcolm was already taking the flask from his hands.
"Wait…" Trip caught his arm, to make his argument more convincing, and Malcolm's breath hitched again. This was too much. Trip tried to hold on to the man, but Malcolm quickly slipped out of his grasp, so he resorted to fix no-nonsense, if unclear, eyes on him and grunted, "Now, crop the cat…" – Damn that stupid illness – "Cut the crap. What the hell is wrong with you, Lieutenant? Sneak! Speak! That's an order!"
There was beat of silence; then a soft snort.
"It seems quite obvious that you are in no condition to be in command, Commander," Malcolm retorted innocently. Trip could see enough to know that the man was carefully keeping out of his reach. "Therefore, I'm giving the orders here," he concluded just as candidly.
"Oh, yeah?" Trip bit back. "I don't stink... think..."
And now laughter – of all things.
"Allow me to disagree, Commander. You do stink," was the amused comment. "Bloody hell, you do. Not that I must smell like a rose, either."
Trip blinked, cursing his sight, his fever, and his swimming thoughts, which undoubtedly altered his perception of things. This, though, was, all of a sudden, a different type of Malcolm; and, more worriedly, even weirder than the Malcolm who lost control; quite unlike the Malcolm he'd expect under the circumstances. A knot formed in his stomach.
"Come on," the man said, still chuckling. He put Trip's arm across his shoulder. "I suppose it's a good thing T'Pol didn't come on this mission after all: she'd have fainted by now, with either one of us."
Only half listening to Malcolm's light-hearted words, Trip let himself be dragged along: it would take too much effort to offer resistance. He'd do what he could to keep upright, and then… then, once he collapsed for good, Malcolm would have to listen to him.
