Klingon Insults in this chapter:
baktag - General Insult
bIHnuch - Coward
Qa'Hom - a Small Animal
petaQ - Useless/Garbage
Ha'DIbaH - Animal
He opens his eyes to a gentle, white glow. There's softness under his head and the air is clean and slightly chemicalized. He breathes deeply and feels no pain.
Dying is oddly convenient, Trip considers. He always thought he would go out with a bang - probably the violent explosion of a warp drive breach. Drowning was apparently as everyone said - a deep breath, a pressure in the lungs, and then waking up in the big, white expanse of... weird light fixings in a conveniently technological ceiling plate.
"A far cry from heaven, I assure you," drawls the familiar voice he never thought he'd hear again. "But given that you were aboard a Klingon vessel, I suppose it is comparable."
"Phlox?" The croak is no better than whatever garble he'd made earlier. Flopping his arms pathetically, Trip clears his throat and tries again. "You're -"
Ah, there's the pain. He looks down at his right arm and swallows, blanching at the swathes of white linen and electronic splints. "What happened?"
"Your injuries were rather overwhelming," Phlox says cryptically, hovering a medscanner over Trip's chest. "Not to mention you nearly drowned in a Klingon holding cell. You had to receive cardiopulmonary resuscitation, courtesy of the captain. You're lucky to be alive."
Memories flood Trip like the gush of water up his nostrils. Useless hands. His knee wrenching until he thought it would be torn off. Malcolm paddling as though he could still reach the surface.
"Malcolm?" Trip rasps. "Where is he?"
Phlox's lips clamp down as he adjusts his scanner minutely. "He was still breathing, last I checked," he says vaguely. "He's suffered prolonged exposure to the water, strained ligaments, and some sort of virus from the Klingon vessel. The pneumonia is... tricky to shake, but I'm fairly certain he'll pull through. He's never been held down for long."
"Is he awake?" Trip asks, giddiness rushing over him. Alive. They're both alive, and they're safely aboard the Enterprise. "Has he said anything?"
"Given the circumstances, I've kept him in an induced coma," Phlox admits. "He's breathed more water than air for a prolonged period of time; it's best to let the antibodies run their course."
"How long were we missing?" Trip asks, sinking back against the bunk. How many sessions? How many days?
"Nearly two weeks," Phlox says, making a few adjustments to the scanner. "There were falsified reports claiming there were no hostiles in the area. When you failed to make contact after the designated two hours a search party was sent out. They found Lieutenant Reed's phaser near the cove. Naturally the captain was furious."
"How'd you find us?" Fingers popping out of joints. Water filling his ears. Malcolm yelling out as they hold him down ... Trip blinks and the images vanish.
"The Klingon's vessel had a slight plasma leak," Phlox explains. "Once we had the signature, it wasn't too hard to follow. The difficulty was reaching the prison block." The Denobulan's face grows somber. "Another minute's delay, and you both would have been beyond resuscitation. The entire cell was filled with water. Our only explanation for your survival is that Lieutenant Reed kept you both above the surface; he is a strong swimmer."
"Naw," Trip says feebly, shaking his head. "He'd never have kept me up for that long."
Shuddering arms and eyes that gleamed with pain. If they had tortured Malcolm the same as they did Trip, he would never have been able to keep them afloat. As it was, he'd sacrificed all of his strength. Almost for nothing.
"Well, I suppose the mystery will be addressed in your report," Phlox says eventually. "The captain won't be expecting to hear from you immediately, of course. Multiple contusions, third degree burns, fractured ribs and vertebrae... you've kept the Osmotic eel busy, Commander. Frankly, I'm surprised that Lieutenant Reed is in better shape. You two usually share the same harassment on your escapades."
"He had his share..." Trip murmurs. Cold. Malcolm was always cold afterwards. Teeth clacking. Knees knocking against one another. So many times his lips were blue after the Klingons resuscitated him. They didn't just keep him under until the count: they dunked him over and over until he was no longer breathing. He had died a couple times each session. How can that be counted as anything less than Trip's injuries?
"When can I see him?" Trip asks, his voice cracking. Does he even know that we've been rescued?
"He's right there," Phlox says, waving the scanner to Trip's right. He braces one hand in warning as the commander swings around. "Ah-ah-ah. Stay where you are. There'll be no walking around for the next two weeks. You can see him very well from where you're sitting."
"Malcolm," Trip whispers.
The man's skin is grey; ghostly. A breathing apparatus covers his mouth and nose; not so crude as the old medical equipment that Trip saw in a museum once, sprouting with clunky wires and a loud reverberation, but still indication enough that Malcolm would be laid out in a shuttlepod, ready to be shipped back home, if not for Phlox's care. His hands are covered with stripes of red, healing skin, and his exposed feet still look fairly raw under a sheen of Phlox's home remedy of Lyssarian Desert Larvae salve. If not for the faint husk of artificial breathing, however, and the gauntness in his face and hands, he would almost appear to be resting after one more drugged occasion with the wrong female crowd.
"Has he woken up at all?" Trip asks.
"Not yet," Phlox says pragmatically, "But soon, I hope. The captain is eager to have you both back at your posts. He was just down here an hour ago, in fact. I chased him off to get some sleep. He'll want to know that you're finally coherent."
Numbly, Trip nods and tucks his splinted arms against his ribs. He's still so cold. Aching. Bewildered. They never even interrogated us. What was the whole point behind it all?
"Commander Tucker is awake, Captain," Phlox says into the wall panel. "Shall I tell him you're on your way?"
"Do so," the captain's voice drifts from the com.
Trip snorts. "He sounds just as tired as I feel."
"Nothing that a few days of R&R won't amend," Phlox assures him. "Might I suggest that you save your report for when you're feeling stronger, and focus on resting for now. Broken bones won't heal overnight."
"You don't have to tell me twice, Phlox," Trip says. He's starting to feel a headache coming on, and his short excursion into the conscious realm has left him heavy-limbed and exhausted. Nothing sounds better than a few more minutes of shuteye. As soon as he speaks with Captain Archer, he'll lay back for a while and close his eyes. Won't be more than a few minutes. He can wait until the captain arrives…..
It's not two minutes later when Archer strides into sickbay, his shadowed eyes immediately latching onto the two inert patients. Phlox minutely shakes his head.
"He just fell asleep again, Captain."
Shoulders heaving in a sigh, Archer ambles to the space between the bunks. "Any change in Malcolm?" he prods, even though he knows that he would have been informed the moment his tactical officer's condition fluxed.
"Nothing yet. The antibodies are still at work, Captain. I'm positive he'll pull through."
Phlox won't give him false hope; this much Archer knows. His eyes flit over Malcolm, taking in every detail: the faint scraping on his left cheek where it was rubbed against metal; the bandages where fingernails were torn away; the discoloration particularly centered around his mouth and nose; the bluish tint indicating that his body still struggles for oxygen; the slight peaks from the decontamination gel locked into his hair; the looseness of fabric that should fit comfortably around him.
The Klingons had drowned him. Faithful, obstinate Malcolm, who tried to overcome his aquaphobia and reluctantly admitted the weakness to his captain. Phlox had insinuated that perhaps Malcolm had vied for time, feigning trauma so that the Klingons would focus their more violent tactics on the one officer while Reed planned their escape. It had taken every ounce of willpower for Archer to punch the computer console instead of his friend. That he would dare suggest that Malcolm would simulate a phobia to avoid torture, even if it was for a good cause….
Archer draws away, aware that his hands are shaking. He grips Malcolm's hand firmly and swallows down his anger. "Get it together, Lieutenant," he says softly. "I'm expecting you back on the bridge before we reach the next outpost."
The hand within his own is cold and lax, and Malcolm makes no indication that he's aware of the captain's presence. He hasn't so much as twitched in four days.
Turning to his engineer, Archer once again runs the medical data through his head. Dislocated knee, wrenched further after the initial injury. Ligaments were practically shredded at that point. Third degree burns. Concussion. Four molars pulled. Purple flesh swelling around splintered fingers. Necessary cartilage regrowth in the nose and the spinal column. Lacerated skin. Broken ribs and bruised organs. Cracked jaw. Nerve damage in the feet and legs. Imbedded glass. Infection, coupled with water inhalation, nearly killed Trip on the operating table. How can Archer say which of his officers suffered more at the Klingons' mercy? How can he know if one or the other expressed their fears openly, drawing the attention towards himself to spare the other's pain?
The Klingon Empire refused to accept the blame for the capture and torture of his crew members. Raised in a culture built on violence and enduring pain, they did not empathize with Earth's compassion for life, nor did they claim to have any control over the rogue vessel that accosted a peaceful landing party. As for Starfleet itself, the council was still skirting around the hope of a future alliance. They would not instigate a war against the Klingons over the capture of two men.
In Archer's mind, the Klingons have already paid. Their ship was destroyed after the rescue. Every Klingon on that vessel is nothing more than space dust. They tortured his crew and they paid for it with their lives.
It's still not enough.
"I'd better see you back in the engine room soon, Trip," Archer says, smoothing a sweat-drenched lock away from the bandage knitting the commander's eyebrow. "There's no telling what's fallen apart in your absence."
His officers have a long haul ahead of them. Phlox has already warned him of what is to come: post traumatic stress; tissue regeneration; fatigue; paranoia; muscle weakness. They'll both need routine therapy, particularly Trip. Malcolm might find it hard to breathe for a while. No rigorous duties for either of them for at least the next six weeks. No firefights. No away missions.
Their suffering isn't over, not by a long shot. The rescue was only the first part. Now they'll need the support of the crew as they try to fit back into their normal lives. It won't be easy for either of them. Malcolm rarely confides in anyone, and Trip's pride will keep him rigid long after his physical wounds heal. Sometimes Archer just wants to grab the two by their collars and knock their heads together. What seems so simple to him will take months to settle for his knuckle-brained officers.
Still, he's confident that if anyone can pull through this and still keep a sane mind, it will be Trip and Malcolm. They've witnessed mercy and cruelty and tragedy during this voyage and they've never shirked away. They'll pull through.
And he'll be there for them when they need him, every step of the way.
"bIHnuch! Qa'Hom! petaQ!"
Each guttural exclamative accompanies a fist slamming into his spine. Legs crumbling, Trip droops over the rig holding him upright. Thin, stinging jolts lance down to his feet. He can't feel much else below the waist.
"Ha'DIbaH! Ha'DIbaH!"
Sloshing sounds are followed by the splat of a body against the floor. Ninety-six seconds followed by the interval of a single breath, carried out thrice. They've held Malcolm under the water for nearly seven minutes. He doesn't breath in a fourth time - not until they pound the water from his stomach and hold him by the back of his neck as he vomits, air whistling in his bruised throat.
"Lieutenant Reed seems to have come off easy," Phlox comments, running his scanner over Trip's bloody arms. "They didn't push dimorusian quills under his nails. I suggest two days' bed rest and a therapy session with my Osmotic eel."
Trip tries to tell him that Malcolm's not fine - that he isn't breathing - but his mouth is a funnel of pain and gaping holes. He looks up desperately as door swishes open, and his heart leaps when Captain Archer strides into the room. He can just make out the Enterprise's bridge behind the captain.
"What's taking so long?" Archer says irritably. "I told you to rendezvous with the ship in two hours."
Throat closing in, Trip forces the sound past his frozen vocal chords. "Mal... Mal..."
The captain spares Malcolm a cursory glance. "He'll be fine. Get it together, Trip. We need you in engineering."
"I... c-can't!" Trip exclaims, frustration sparking at his eyes. He tries to unbend his fingers, but they're twisted and grotesque, like hunks of raw meat hanging from his swollen hands. "Help...!"
"I gave you an order, Trip." Shaking his head, Archer motions to T'Pol. "Fine. Get Malcolm in here. We'll just have to make do."
"Captain!" Trip chokes out.
Brushing off his uniform, Malcolm glances back at him and shakes his head. "It's just a bit of water, Trip."
Even as he says it, he collapses at the Klingon's feet, spasming in a filthy puddle as water streaks from his mouth and nose. Trip screams, yanking at the hands holding him prisoner, reaching helplessly for his friend.
"Commander Tucker, it's alright! Do you understand me? You're back aboard the Enterprise."
Lunging upright, Trip seizes the hand on his shoulder and yanks at the thumb. His assailant is too quick for him, and before he can roll away a hypospray is pressed into his neck.
"That will calm him," he hears dimly. "Commander Tucker, can you hear me?"
"Phlough?" Slowly the dark room washes into an off-white ceiling. Squinting at the denobulan, Trip swallows and tries again. "Phlox."
"I'm right here," the doctor reassures him. "You're in sickbay. Lieutenant Reed is recovering in the next bed. Do you remember where you are now?"
"Yeah." The sense of weakness fleeing with the dream, Trip drags himself upright and brushes his wrist over his forehead. "Did I give the captain my report?"
"Not yet. You only regained consciousness yesterday. He dropped by soon after you fell asleep."
"Missed him, huh?" He feels stronger now, if not lucid. Amazing what modern-day medicine is capable of.
"Might I suggest that you try to rest some more," Phlox advises. "You're still recuperating, and bones don't simply knit overnight."
Breathing deeply, Trip slowly releases the air and squares his shoulders. "No. Tell the captain I want to speak with him as soon as possible."
"You won't be waiting very long," Phlox mutters. He utters a string of denobulan phrases, slapping the wall panel with the frustration of an overwhelmed, put upon doctor. It seems that Trip hasn't been the only one making demands as of late.
"They didn't ask us anything. It's like they just wanted something to punch around."
There's very little influx in Trip's voice as he describes the last two weeks. From the first session to their rescue, he feels as though he's recounting a dream.
"I don't know why they singled out Malcolm for the water torture," he says. He grits his teeth when Archer's eyes flash. "They weren't taking it easy in him, Captain. Whatever people are saying, he didn't leave the fall to me and he ain't no coward."
"I didn't imply anything of the kind." There's pain in Archer's eyes that Tri's never seen. Failure, he reads. Failure and disappointment, but not in his crew.
Leaning forward, Archer rests his elbows on his knees and fiddles with a datapad, clearly debating something. At length he sits back and says somberly, "Malcolm is aquaphobic."
For an instant Trip can't think of a response. "Wait... He's scared of water?" Malcolm Reed, explorer of coves and tide pools, descendant of a fine navy heritage, is genuinely phobic of what should be his natural element? "You're kidding me, right?"
"This stays between you and me," Archer snaps. "He's not afraid of water; he has a phobia of drowning."
Recoiling, Trip opens his mouth - and shuts it without a word. The Klingons had held him under the water... how many times? Forty? Eighty?
Ninety-six seconds...
"He ... he never said anything." Trip finally manages to speak. "Not once while we were held captive."
"It's not something he's proud of," Archer explains quietly. "I thought that in space he would never have to worry about it."
Trip gives a hoarse, broken laugh. "All that water pouring around us, and me too crippled to save myself... He could have held on longer, you know. He could've let me drown and kept his head above the water. He didn't seem so scared for himself when he was boosting me."
"Phlox was wondering about the muscle damage in Malcolm's arms and legs..." Archer hints, silently requesting the rest of the story.
Blowing out a pursed breath, Trip adjusts his bum leg and settles awkwardly against the bunk's headrest. "It all went down when the ship was attacked. They put us in the same cell together..."
Despite Phlox's threats of a sedative, Trip doesn't want to sleep. Malcolm's vitals have steadily grown stronger. He's off the breathing apparatus, and a healthy color has returned to his extremities, but he hasn't stirred. Trip wants to be there when he finally does.
"It might be hours yet, Commander," Phlox cautions him. "Perhaps another day."
"I ain't tired yet," Trip insists. He feels like his brain is pressing the restart button every five seconds, and the aching in his bones is a tad too persistent for the analgesics to kick in, but he isn't ready to call it a night. "Any minute now."
"I could have the captain order you to rest," Phlox comments, clearly vexed that his most stubborn patient has been feigning coherence for the last five hours. "You can hardly stay awake, even without a sedative. It won't make any difference if you sleep for a few hours."
It will if he wakes up and I'm conked out over here, Trip argues silently. He has to know what's going through Malcolm's head. Even more so now than before, he needs to be there; if only to reassure the lieutenant that it's okay to be afraid of something. As far as Trip's concerned, Malcolm proved himself brave enough for them both.
"Suit yourself," Phlox says as Trip stoically ignores him. "You'll nod off eventually. If you need something for the pain, let me know."
"Yeah, sure," Trip grunts. He twists sideways, massaging the tender ligaments around his knee cap. Dang, it still hurts nearly as much as when the Klingons first twisted it.
"If you keep prodding your injuries, it'll be weeks before you walk again," Phlox warns him.
Rolling his eyes, Trip flops back against the headrest. He blinks hard, then forces his eyes wide open. Five more minutes. He can hold out that long...
"baktag!" A driving heel crunches one knuckle. Trip can hear someone hollering past the white flash that's blinding his brain. The haze lifts, leaving him crawling on the floor, his mangled hand tucked against his ribs.
"Don't let them do it again." A dripping Malcolm sits cross-legged in front of him, his head lowered in shame. "Don't let them put me in there."
"It's nothing to be ashamed of," Trip says, gagging as water suddenly fills his mouth. "Nothing... y'can... help..."
Malcolm tilts his head, and his calm, blue eyes are impassive as he watches Trip splutter. "Are you quite alright, Commander?"
Hacking, Trip yanks the corner of a pillowcase out of his mouth and makes a face when drool trails over the fabric. Ugh... Thank heavens T'Pol isn't around. Falling back onto the mattress, he stares at the wall over Malcolm's bed. Five days since he first woke up, and there hasn't been a peep from the lieutenant. Trip's starting to wonder if he'll ever wake up, or if the water's finally gotten the best of...
Dropping his eyes to the next bunk, Trip loses his train of thought. His jaw drops down as cool, blue eyes assess him. There's a twinkle of amusement in those tired orbs as Malcolm whispers, "Thought you'd never wake up."
Heedless of the doctor's orders, Trip scrambles over the bunk and sprawls against the wall at the lieutenant's bedside. "I thought you were a goner," he says giddily. "You sure took your sweet ol' time getting back here."
Malcolm cringes slightly, like he's not sure what to make of that remark. "How long?" he asks. His voice is still as rough as cracking plaster.
"Over a week," Trip says softly. "How do you feel?"
"Lousy." The word is ejected with a grimace. Malcolm's eyes are hollow with memories, and Trip has to wonder if he looks the same. "What took them so bloody long?
Huffing, Trip eases himself down to the floor. "I never thought they'd get there. If it hadn't been for you, I'd have been shipped off to Panama City in a shuttlepod." He picks at a stray wire in the cast supporting his wrist before posing the question. "How come you didn't tell me you were aquaphobic?"
He doesn't see Malcolm's expression, but he hears the hesitation, followed by a dismayed murmur. "The captain told you?"
"I kinda bumbled into it," Trip admits uneasily. "After two weeks on that vessel, it made more sense."
"I suppose you would have known eventually..." Malcolm says bitterly.
Trip doesn't blame him for clamming up. It's hard enough having your weakness exploited, without a friend constantly witnessing your humiliation. "You kept saying ninety-six seconds," he says detachedly, like it hadn't been the count running through his own head every session. "What was so important about that number?"
Flustered, Malcolm says offhandedly, "I ... knew I could hold out for longer. It was the Klingons who panicked when they threw us in the cell together."
"That was panic?" Trip exclaims, glancing up at his fellow officer. He doesn't know whether it's funny or tragic that Malcolm blushes as he listens. "I thought they just wanted to kill us both at once."
"I might have instigated our joined confinement," Malcolm admits. "I made them believe that I'd rather be shot than drowned."
Something doesn't add up. Slowly, reluctantly, Trip asks, "Was any of that... put on?"
Malcolm's expression stills. "You mean my panic," he guesses. "You think that I made them believe I was afraid of drowning so that they would ignore me during the sessions."
Trip doesn't want to say anything, but he figures his silence is answer enough.
Sighing, Malcolm turns to face the ceiling. "Of course. I suppose everyone on board knows that Malcolm the Fearful managed to evade the worst of the Klingon attack."
"I never said anything like that!" Trip says, aghast.
"Then what did you mean?" Malcolm retorts.
"I mean, what's the big deal about ninety-six?" Trip states. "The Klingons weren't the only one counting! Something about that number gave you resolve when they turned the pipes on!"
He can see the tension in Malcolm's face: the reluctance to divulge precious information. Tersely the Englishman explains, "When I was a child, I was trapped under a sinking life pod. I lost consciousness. When I finally came to, my grandfather said that I had been under the water for ninety-six seconds. Obviously I can hold my breath for longer now, but it's a long time to be immersed when you're thinking about..." He shakes himself and says brusquely, "When they started counting it just brought everything back."
"Well, the cap was pretty mad when he found out," Trip says, backing down. He tries to express in his voice that it's alright; that no one's blaming Malcolm for anything. "Obviously the Klingons did a good job assessing both of our weaknesses."
"I was prepared to be tortured," Malcolm says jaggedly. "I wasn't afraid of that."
"You didn't seem so scared of the water when we were locked up, either," Trip states. "Any time you could've cut me loose and no one would've been the wiser."
For a few minutes Malcolm is silent. Trip hopes that he's pondering things and not wallowing in self-appointed disgrace. Finally Malcolm murmurs, "I had to do it. I can hold my breath for two-hundred and eighty seconds under water, but I couldn't have kept us both afloat for very long."
"You knew they would run those pipes?" Trip wonders.
Malcolm scoffs. "Why else would I have convinced them to throw us in there together? They would have shot us, you know. Then the captain would have found a couple of corpses."
Smirking, Trip shakes his head. "So you took the chance of getting locked up in a box that was rapidly filling up with water, with nothing more than a showerhead to cling onto, and a crippled crewmate hanging over your back, and you think we're accusing you of being scared of a little water?"
"Yes! ... No... Wasn't that what you were implying?" Malcolm snaps.
"I'm saying that for a man faced with drowning for real, you handled it pretty well," Trip says. He watches Malcolm's face, hoping that the man will look down and see the sincerity in his eyes. "No one could've dreamed that you were aquaphobic. Seems to me that you were the hero of the operation."
Properly disconcerted, Malcolm gives a dismissive shrug. "It gave us a chance," he mumbles. "Better to face my time than to have it taken away from me."
Chewing his lip, Trip finishes dethreading the wire as he considers his next move. Malcolm speaks first.
"For once..." the lieutenant contemplates, "I felt completely in control. Perhaps that's how my great-uncle felt, when he locked himself in the engine room right before his ship went down. It was my decision whether I would live or... if someone else would have that chance." Sighing pensively, he reveals, "For the first time in my life, I wasn't afraid."
"So you're rethinking the navy?" Trip quips.
With an honest, rasping chuckle, Malcolm shakes his head, and the tension in the air instantly evaporates. "Never. I think I'll leave the water to the dolphins from now on."
And in Trip's eyes, that's perfectly all right. One instance of drowning is enough for him to convince him stay out of the water for a looong time. He figures the captain can put up with two aquaphobic crew members for a little while. At least it'll keep them both out of trouble on water-locked planets.
Until the next crisis is addressed, that is. "So... how long do you think before either of us feels comfortable taking a shower again?"