§ 4 §

Shuttlepod Two rocked slightly as it went through the planet's thermo barrier. A few moments later the flying became smooth again.

"One of the bursts that hit us up there almost damaged our propulsion system," Travis said, shaking his head. "Lieutenant Hess did a helluva good job… if you'll pardon the expression, Sir."

Archer could hardly be concerned with language at the moment. "She's a fine engineer," he murmured, his attention fully focussed on the instruments before him. Scanners were not totally blind like on Enterprise, but weren't exactly giving him much in the way of readings.

Expertly guided, Shuttlepod Two cruised down towards the planet's northern hemisphere, where T'Pol had calculated their missing Officers had most likely landed.

"Anything, Sir?"

Archer pursed his lips. "Readings are unclear and narrowly circumscribed," he replied tautly. "Damn, what is it with this planet? If they don't clear up it will take us days, weeks even, to scan the area. And Trip and Malcolm might not have that much time."

"Perhaps the energy bursts will not penetrate the planet's atmosphere, Captain," Travis said, in an obvious effort to be optimistic.

Archer heaved a concerned sigh. "Level off the pod and let's begin a grid search pattern."

"Aye, Sir."

"I'm hungry," Trip declared.

Malcolm snorted. "It's three a.m.," he said in the high-pitched voice that, in his range of nuances, was meant to convey disbelief/disapproval.

"So what? Can't a man get hungry at three a.m.?" Trip pushed up and got to his feet. "It takes a lot of energy to keep talkin'," he said innocently. "Be back right away."

Malcolm watched him disappear into the darkness, in the direction of their pod. A moment later they were sitting cross-legged, each munching on a nutrient bar.

"You made me sound like some sort of insatiable monster but you don't seem to have any objections to sinkin' your own teeth into some food," Trip grumbled.

"It would be impolite of me to let you eat alone," Malcolm replied with exaggerated propriety.

"Sure, sure," Trip mumbled around his mouthful.

Malcolm shook his head. He'd been given hell as a child for talking with his mouth full. "Let's not eat too much," he warned. "I suppose we ought to ration our supplies. We don't know how long we will be staying in this lovely resort."

He saw Trip swallow his mouthful and give him an askew glance. "Just when I thought you had developed a little optimism, not to mention a little faith in the Capt'n…"

"Come on, Trip," Malcolm said with a patient sigh. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I know. But I'm still hopin' I'll get some of the pod's systems workin'. I haven't given up on them yet."

"I never doubted that."

Malcolm knew Trip liked a good challenge. Indeed, the only thing they probably had in common was a hefty amount of stubbornness. He really had no doubt that while they waited to be rescued his friend would not stop trying. And if anyone could do the miracle, that was him.

"When was the first time you fixed something?" he found himself asking.

Trip, who had finished eating and was stretching, stopped in mid-action and his mouth curved upwards. "You mean the first time I took somethin' apart?"

Malcolm studied Trip's impish expression. "All right," he replied, curious to hear the story.

"As a kid I destroyed quite a few things to look inside them, but the first thing I fixed was my mom's oven," he said without thinking twice. "She was gonna make pie and the damn thing wouldn't work." He shrugged. "Couldn't let that happen."

Malcolm tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. "How old were you?"

"Six, seven… can't remember."

"Impressive."

Trip's brow shot up. "What I do remember is I got a second helpin' of pie."

"I'll say: a well-deserved reward."

Trip lay back down, and after a moment Malcolm followed suit. He could just picture the kind of child his friend must have been. Always in trouble because of his curious mind. He too had often been in trouble as a child, but mostly for other reasons. Mainly because he never seemed to…

"How about you?" Trip's voice interrupted his thoughts. "When was the first time you blew somethin' up?"

"Why should I have blown anything up?" Malcolm replied in mock outrage.

Trip snorted. "Because. I just know you did. Come on, out with it," he said in the tones of command.

Malcolm bit his lip. He had indeed. "I built a model cannon, using some tin," he admitted reluctantly.

"And?" There was anticipation in Trip's voice.

Drawing in a deep breath, Malcolm closed his eyes and a scene he had not thought of in years replayed in his mind.

"There were some old cartridges in the house, which had been used for hunting by some revered ancestor. I stole a couple, opened them and got out the powder and pellets." Cracking his eyes open, Malcolm saw Trip watching him closely, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Well?"

"My weapons engineering wasn't very good at the time," Malcolm continued, with a lopsided smirk. "When I ignited the powder, the pellets weren't exactly propelled in the right direction: the explosion destroyed the cannon and I nearly ended up riddled with shots like a pheasant."

Trip's smile fell and his eyes grew wide. "Were you hurt?"

"A few pellets got embedded in my arms, but I was ok." With a soft, humourless laugh Malcolm added, "At least until my father came home, a couple of days later."

"Did he…"

"Oh, no," Malcolm hurried to say. "He just gave me a hell of a lecture." He felt a knot form in his stomach. In his life his father might have not dealt him more than a few slaps on the behind but… Before he could stop himself he added, "There are many ways to hurt a child."

"How old were you?" Trip asked after a moment, in a careful voice.

"Eight and a half."

Trip didn't enquire any further, and Malcolm was grateful for it. His friend was sensitive enough to have realised that more had been said than had been intended.

There was a silence.

"My father was to take me on a grand tour of the new ship he'd recently been given command of, that following week-end."

Why the hell was he telling Trip this? A moment before he'd felt he'd said too much and now… He briefly met his friend's eyes, and liked what he saw in them: not a morbid curiosity but a genuine desire to understand. That's what made it possible, if not easy, to open up to this man: the knowledge Trip might well be his friend but was intellectually honest. He wouldn't say things just to please him.

Malcolm went on. "I had looked forward to it, but… well, I was no longer keen, all bandaged up as I was," he said. He felt his muscles tense and tried to keep the edge out of his voice as he added, "Changing plans, however, was not something my father endorsed. Naturally everybody we met on and off board asked what had happened to me, so I was made a fool in front of the whole bloody Navy that day." Pursing his lips, he let out a mirthless huff. "More subtle than a beating, wouldn't you agree?"

Trip's face scrunched up. "You think your dad did that as a form of punishment? To humiliate you?"

It took a moment for Malcolm to answer. "It certainly felt like that at the time," he replied truthfully. "Although whenever I've thought back on that day I've wondered… I don't really know. It could well be he only wanted to teach me to face the consequences of my actions and not avoid things that are unpleasant."

His father had been a very strict parent, a military man even at home. But that, Malcolm had come to realise in much later years, had been his way to love him. With time Malcolm had begun to see things from a different perspective, and nowadays the only real grudge he still held against him was the fact that Stuart Reed had tried so hard to change him, in many ways. The man should have simply accepted the fact that his son was not exactly what he had wanted. He had made him feel so damn inadequate, almost rejected. It had hurt.

Trip's voice shook him out of his thoughts.

"If he did it to humiliate you, I think it was wrong," he said. "But all parents make mistakes, mostly meaning well. And I bet a lot of the good things about you come from your dad's teachings, Malcolm." He raised his eyebrows emphatically. "Can't say I've ever seen you chicken out of anything, no matter how dangerous or unpleasant…"

Malcolm opened his mouth to reply, but didn't really know what to say. He was still pondering Trip's words when the man spoke again.

"Blowing up a cannon! Good thing your engineerin' skills have improved some."

Malcolm felt his mood instantly lift. "Made a lovely explosion," he commented; and they shared a liberating chuckle.

"Perhaps if I lowered our altitude…" Mayweather suggested.

Archer smirked. "It will take us even longer to scan the area." He reached out and opened a channel to Enterprise. "Archer to the bridge." The voice that replied sounded very distant.

"Go ahead, Captain."

"I can barely read you, T'Pol. Can you see us on your instruments?"

"Negative. There is too much interference." T'Pol seemed to be carefully articulating her words. "Are you getting any readings from the planet?"

"Fuzzy and limited."

"Try varying your altitude, Captain. There might be a band where readings get clearer."

Travis half turned to cast a glance behind him.

Archer nodded a silent order. "Will do. Any news on those energy bursts?"

"They continue to move closer, Captain."

"How long before they might enter the planet's atmosphere?"

Static answered his question.

"Come in, Subcommander," Archer said almost angrily. That's all he needed, losing contact with Enterprise.

"Fi… to six hours …ost."

Archer grimaced. That wasn't much time for the job at hand.

"Take us a little lower, Travis," he said tautly, clenching his jaw.

"Aye, Sir." Eyes riveted on his instruments, Travis executed the order. "Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed should've activated the emergency beacon," he said hesitantly. "We'll pick it up sooner or later…"

"Well, it better be soon."

Archer bit his lip. The fact they had not picked up the beacon yet was probably due to the damn interference, but there was still a chance Trip and Malcolm might be injured and had been unable to activate it. He saw Travis glance at him over his shoulder.

"I'm sure they're fine, Captain," the helmsman said, as if he had read his thoughts. "We'll find them." But again Archer got the feeling Travis was almost trying to convince himself.

Straightening his shoulders, he focussed back on the indistinct readings on his console. "Let's concentrate on that search pattern again, Ensign. Almost time to turn about."

"Aye, Sir."

TBC

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