Commotion wakes him. Hollers. Alarms. Commands. The prison cells are lit with a blinking red glow. Groaning, Trip brushes his wrist over his blood-caked nose.
"They're here!" Malcolm's shout is barely a wheeze, and he can scarcely hear it over the blaring alerts. "Trip, can you hear me? The ship's under attack! It must be - "
Whatever he was going to say is cut off as Trip's door flies open. He raises his head, hoping against hope that it's Captain Archer about to sack him for landing himself in trouble - again. Instead he sees stocky, armored legs braced under a heavy gun. Grimly Trip swallows. Apparently the Klingons won't wait for rescue to find their captives. They're going to finish him off before Starfleet can disable their ship.
Good serving under you, Captain, Trip thinks, bracing himself for the laser that will finish his career.
Chuckling, the Klingon looks down at Trip's twisted leg and nudges it with his gun. He looks over his shoulder and nods to someone else. "Put the other one in here."
Another prisoner? Trip's heart sinks. One more hostage. Who else is going to die in this futile rescue attempt?
He hollers as a slim figure bowls into him, jarring his dislocated knee and throwing the white curtain before his eyes. There's a clang of bolting metal, a flurry of frantic apologies, and the buoyancy of cautious hands lifting him from the floor. Groaning, Trip sinks into the other man's shoulder.
"Got you too, huh?" he mutters.
There's a soft laugh, and an unmistakably British drawl. "Still here, Commander."
Blinking owlishly, Trip stares at his cellmate. "What t'heck r'you doin' n'here?"
"Perhaps they presume it's easier to guard one cell." Malcolm's voice breaks off in a wet cough. Hastily he settles Trip down and pulls away, bending double in a hacking fit. The hoarse, croaking gasps tell Trip everything he doesn't want to hear: without medical attention soon, Malcolm won't be capable of catching his breath.
He finds it morbid and terrifying that he starts counting the seconds until Malcolm leans back and inhales. Forty-four, forty-five…. The fit lasts barely a minute, but by the end of it Malcolm is swaying on his knees, clinging to the wall for support.
"Sorry," he grates, feebly rubbing his chest. "Didn't … expect… that…."
Trip wants to say something - anything - that will be meaningful in these last hours. It doesn't matter as long as we both go out together… No better man to have alongside me in the end… No better friend…. Funny, words seem cheap at a moment like this. His first attempt to speak is smothered in a heavy moan as his ribcage seizes, cutting off his air.
Wordlessly Malcolm scoots over and lifts him again, coughing softly from the exertion as he lifts Trip's shoulders against his chest. It's easier to breathe now, at least.
"I suppose … we… wait for the calvary," Malcolm muses. What a pathetic duo they make, flopped against a Klingon cell wall, bloody, bruised and half drowned in phlegm and blood. Trip huffs and lets his eyes shutter.
"No better friend….." he mumbles.
This time it's Malcolm who laughs. "Can't… lose hope now. They're coming."
Now who's the optimist? Trip doesn't have the energy to say it, and he can't even punch a daisy at this point, so he nudges Malcolm with his elbow instead.
He almost thinks they could stay there, holding on to one another like the brothers that neither ever had, until the Klingons finish them off. A slight thrum of a pipe startles him out of his reverie. The thrum rattles into a pressurized roar, and suddenly the spigot overhead rattles to life. Malcolm shouts and ducks over him just as water gushes from the ceiling.
Suddenly Trip knows why the grate in the floor is so small.
They're right on the verge of being rescued, and they're about to drown in their own holding cell.
Malcolm ought to be panicking right now. By every logical right and reason, Malcolm should start panicking. Water spews from the overhead spigot, drenching both lieutenant and commander, puddling on the cell floor in the worst indoor cloudburst that Trip has ever seen. Within thirty seconds the flow of water overwhelms the small drain and begins gathering in inches.
Shaking wet hair out of his face, Malcolm scrambles backwards, heedless of Trip's outcry as he drags the engineer with him. Already the water has covered his feet. At the measured output, they have five minutes before it reaches waist-level. If that.
So this is how it feels, Trip thinks, howling as his leg jounces against the floor. Drowning in a small space. No wonder Malcolm freaked out during the waterboarding session.
Ninety-six seconds. Ninety-six until the water reaches the knees of a crouched man. Ninety-six more until it reaches his shoulders. By then, Trip won't have enough leverage to breathe.
A little water won't kill you. He snorts, finding dull humor in his own irony. He's about to die, beached like an overturned turtle, with a gimpy leg and useless fingers. Does it hurt to drown? Or is it like going to sleep, like some people say?
He remembers screaming for air while a hand braces his head under the water. Burning lungs and an aching throat. Malcolm thrashing like a cat on bath day, terrified every time they drag him over to the box.
There's no way that drowning doesn't hurt.
The water is lapping his chest now, thundering over his head in a merciless, stinging torrent. Ludicrously Trip thinks, At least I finally get enough to drink.
He tries to laugh about it, one last time, but the gurgle ends in a scream as Malcolm's hands brace under his shoulders and tug. Pain racks from his legs to his spinal cord as his chest clears the water and he's braced, trembling, against Malcolm's crouched form.
"S-Sorry," Malcolm wheezes, adjusting his grip. "Forgot. M-Mind the leg."
Dazed as he is, Trip knows exactly what Malcolm is doing. "D-Down," he gasps, batting ineffectively at the lieutenant's arm. Would you stop playing hero for once? Dragging this out isn't going to make it any easier!
"Fraid I c-can't make out what … what you're saying," Malcolm lies blithely, raising them both another inch above the water. Soon enough he will be standing, bearing all of Trip's weight, and he's barely holding himself together as it is.
"Won't…." be able to "Breathe…" carrying me like this!
Malcolm stumbles to his full height, keeping his eyes fixed on the sealed door. "Just long enough."
"What..." happened to your fear "Do you think..." you can actually get us out of here "You're doing...?" everything you can, and even if it won't save us, I'm grateful.
Scanning the overhead spigot, Malcolm adjusts his grip. "Ninety-six seconds," he whispers to himself.
Before Trip can shout at him to have done with the blasted count already, Malcolm crouches low and hurls the engineer over his shoulder. Water splashes into Trip's mouth and for a few seconds the cell is cloaked in merciful black.
He comes to swiftly as his broken hand bashes against the wall, wrenching a sound from his throat that borders between a yelping beagle and a deranged alley cat. Malcolm curses and flounders beneath him.
"S-Sorry," the lieutenant chatters, grunting as he feels along the wall. "T-Try not t-to move."
What the heck are you doing? Trip mentally bellows. The only sound he makes is another indignant moan.
"Alm-most there, S-Sir," Malcolm says. There it is again - that churlishly polite 'Yes Sir, No Sir, Sorry Sir' attitude that always sees to follow an indirect form of rebellion or a dismal sense of failure. Trip isn't in the mood for either of those drama queen acts. He dips lower over Malcolm's shoulder, determined to slide off this fun-go-round and make his own sense of the situation in a more comfortable position - preferably on the stability of the cell floor.
"I wouldn't d-do that," Malcolm warns him coolly. He grips another carved line in the wall, hauling himself up, and it finally occurs to Trip that the lieutenant isn't scouting for an electric panel to open the door - he's climbing.
"There's four f-feet of water," Malcolm says, heaving himself up to the next finger hold. His foot slips and he shouts, nearly plummeting the scant distance. From his downward position Trip can see blood well up from a ripped toenail. "We fall down there," Malcolm says grimly, "And n-neither of us is c-coming back."
Unspoken, he reports, I don't have the strength for another climb.
Relaxing as much as the spasms permit, Trip leans to the right, spreading his weight more evenly across Malcolm's shoulder. The fool isn't going to set him down, and while he's grateful that he's still breathing, he knows that he's jeopardizing his friend's only chance to survive. No matter how much optimism Trip ices onto this pineapple cake of a disaster, he's accepted that there's no way Starfleet is going to find them alive. He doubts that Malcolm will respond well to him belly-flopping off his shoulder, however; most likely the lieutenant will dive after him and then they'll both drown, floundering at the bottom. Besides, he's not yet ready to give up without a fight.
"C-Can't be much l-longer," Malcolm grates out. He hesitates, gathering himself, and then lunges. There's a terrible sense of falling and a jolt that clacks Trip's teeth together. For an instant he's a howling pendulum across Malcolm's shoulder, swaying back and forth, digging his elbows into the lieutenant's ribs as he tries to stop himself from plunging head-first into the pattering lake. They've reached the top, he realizes. Malcolm hangs precariously, bare feet pressed against the opposite wall, bearing the weight of two as he clings to the spigot that pelts them both with tepid water. The water level has risen to a tall man's shoulders. It slaps at his ankles, taunting him with inescapable demise.
"J-Just hold on, Commander," Malcolm implores. Trip's can hear the husk of the cough he's suppressing. He can't see above Malcolm's waistline, but the tremors in the lieutenant's body speak for him. Trip can imagine the rest. Malcolm probably has his face turned away to avoid the worst of the cascade. His arms are rippling with strain, and his hands burn as they are forced to bear the weight of two. (Scant as their rations have been lately, neither officer is a lightweight.) He's struggling for each breath, his limited oxygen capacity further cut off by the exertion of the climb and the body hanging from his shoulders. His feet - well, Trip can see those, and they're bleached white from the pressure, chaffed from clinging to the armored walls.
Just hold on. As if he can brace Malcolm's arms by will alone. It should be both of them hanging to the walls, taking turns bearing the other's weight and bolstering one another with assurances that help will find them in time. This time, Trip is as useless as a manican in a uniform, while Malcolm alone is forced to rescue his sorry hide. It was never meant to be like this. He's the commander - he should be the one calling the lead, not waiting for death to take them both.
"It's all right, S-Sir." It seems as though Malcolm is talking to himself now, as though Trip has been replaced with every faceless superior in the lieutenant's past. "I c-can hold on."
It's okay, Trip wants to tell him - as if he'd be heard above the water spattering over them both. You can let go, Lieutenant. No one's going to think of you as anything less than a hero by now.
For a man who demonstrated an innate fear of water during his captivity, the lieutenant is doing an admirable job of keeping his senses about him. Perhaps he made a mistake in joining Starfleet. Earth's navy forces lost a fine officer when he commissioned aboard the Enterprise.
"S-Sir," Malcolm probes, his voice barely a hiss past clenched teeth, "If you c-can h-hear me... perhaps you should… m-move yourself higher. Won't be... long now…"
Not long before the water reaches Malcolm's waist and starts toying with Trip's hair. He sees Malcolm's feet adjust against the far wall, raising the man to a forced seated position. There's a sort of crook created in his posture that will allow Trip to scoot back and keep his head at Malcolm's shoulder level. His weight will be fully settled on the lieutenant's legs, and those are already shaking apart.
As though sensing his concern, Malcolm stutters, "I c-can t-take it, Sir."
What a mercy that he's hanging out with Starfleet's Tactical Officer, who is required to keep himself in excellent shape. If Hoshi had been in this position he would have crushed her twenty minutes ago.
Digging in his elbows, feeling for the accompanying shift as Malcolm compensates for the movement, Trip inches backwards until he's nestled back against the lieutenant's shoulder. He can see Malcolm's face now, and it only serves to remind him how helpless he is and the impossibility of what his friend is trying to do. There's no panic in steely blue eyes. There's no room for anything but the anguish and determination to hold on. Malcolm's entire body is one rippling mass. Somewhere he keeps drawing on hidden strength, forcing it into his white-knuckled hands, but it won't last much longer. His body can't hold up. His hands will release without his consent and he'll be dragged down, incapable of so much as holding his head above the water. They'll both probably hit the bottom at the same time. The only question will be who inhales first.
But at least… at least this way they'll be together. Neither of them will have to die alone.
"S-Sorry, Sir," Malcolm says, and suddenly there's fear in his eyes as his arms begin to jerk. "I c-can… I can do it!"
Trip braces himself, because he knows that Malcolm can't. His body has reached the end of its strength. Lieutenant Reed has served to the very last, with every ounce of life that he has to offer, and now it is time to accept that death comes for them eventually. Never a better officer. Never a better friend.
Malcolm cries out once, and then the water closes over Trip's head. He can feel Malcolm's limbs batting against him, weak and uncontrollable, as if the lieutenant is still trying to bring him to the surface. He succeeds to a point - both hands manage to lock around Trip's waist, and there's an instant of soft red light as Malcolm kicks above the waterline, but the glimpse is swiftly covered in a grey filter. Trip holds his breath, gritting his teeth to the last moment, but he can feel Malcolm jerking around him, using up his precious air in one last venture to the surface.
He doesn't make it.
Bubbles sift around Trip's ears and he knows who is going to die first. Malcolm's struggles become less coordinated and soon enough he is drifting, his hands falling away from Trip's waist. The red light is merely a firefly's glow overhead. Solid metal meets Trip's shoulders just as Malcolm's body tumbles beside him. The lieutenant's eyes are closed.
For once, there is no pain.
Trip finally inhales and lets the water claim him.