§ 7 §
This wasn't happening. It must be all in his mind, surely. He must be asleep, having a nightmare. He was asleep, wasn't he? These weren't really straps binding him to a bed; this wasn't a lab; that wasn't Doctor Dvo'we; and, especially, that pointy thing in his hand wasn't a syringe.
Travis felt a surge of panic grip him, and started pulling wildly against his restraints. He heard himself curse loudly, a steady stream of words, and he was hoarse before a part of him, his better self, felt ashamed at such lack of control. He was a Starfleet Officer, he must remember that, concentrate on that. With deep breaths, he pulled himself together, though the sight of Dvo'we who went about his business as if he didn't exist, made him cold to the core. This was a man with nerves of steel, and he – Travis Mayweather – was in serious trouble.
Prison! A prison cell right now felt like a pretty agreeable prospect...
"What do you want from me?" he roared; again. His heart was beating furiously; he could feel it pumping hard, in his ears, at the base of his neck. "What the hell do you want?"
There was no answer, of course. There never was. Ignoring him was the damn man's sport, and a powerful intimidating weapon.
Sweat trickled down the side of Travis's face, making it itch. He twisted his neck, in a vain effort to wipe it off his shoulder. When he turned again, Dvo'we was there, looming over him. His uncommunicative eyes bore into him; then, slowly, he lowered the syringe to the base of his neck.
Travis felt the needle penetrate. He screamed.
"Lieutenant, one more thing," Archer called, stopping Malcolm who, with a nod, was already moving to exit the ready-room.
Leaning back against the edge of his desk, he watched his Officer retrace a step to return to Trip's side. He could have just as well taken a further step and joined T'Pol, who was closer to the door, but hadn't. Archer almost smiled; Trip and Malcolm were as similar as water and fire, yet their friendship was getting more solid by the day.
His thoughts turned a lot grimmer as he gave his Lieutenant the once-over. He did it quickly, trying to be unobtrusive, but he held few hopes Malcolm wouldn't notice: the man wore antennae that were quite sensitive in that respect. He also wore as tired a face as Archer had ever seen on him at the start of a day. It was obvious his bed hadn't seen much of him last night.
Doubt assailed him again. What had got into him, giving that order? Suppose T'Pol was right and Malcolm got caught... He cursed himself and schooled his features. A Captain must not let doubts show in front of his men.
"You look like hell," he said directly. "I'd like you to get some rest before you beam down, Lieutenant." He let his eyes drive home the message that this wasn't really a request – more like an order. Unexpectedly, he didn't get the slightest argument.
"Aye, Sir," Malcolm replied, a bit self-consciously. His gaze flicked to the clock on Archer's desk. "It's mid-afternoon planet-side at the moment; I should wait until well after sunset before transporting down, which means I do have some time on my hands."
Ah. The man wasn't off the hook yet, though.
"Rest as in sleep, Malcolm. A few hours of solid sleep. Get Phlox to give you something, if you can't manage it on your own."
That – he saw – went down less smoothly. Malcolm's mouth twitched downwards; but eventually he gave a sharp nod.
Archer shifted his attention to Trip. "Can you do anything to cover up the transport?"
"Yeah, I'll find a way, don't worry."
"Any questions?"
Trip shook his head; T'Pol raised one eyebrow.
"Sir," Malcolm said, "once I'm down there we should keep comm. silence. I will initiate contact, if necessary; or when I'm ready to return to the ship."
Archer pursed his lips. "Fair enough. But if we don't hear from you in eight hours, we'll transport you back from wherever you are." He looked from one officer to the next one last time. "Dismissed."
And may God help them.
Ga'we pushed open the gate that gave access to the small lawn in the back of his house and closed it behind him delicately. He liked coming home from the back, rather than the front door, because Echia was usually in the kitchen preparing their meal at this hour, and he loved to catch a glimpse of her through the window, hair pulled up in a neat bun, going about her business with the artlessness of someone who didn't know she was being observed.
Tonight, that thought sent a shiver down his spine. Even though he should hurry inside, he leaned back against the gate, and the full realisation of just how vulnerable she was hit him like a ton of bricks. Dvo'we's not so veiled threat had been going though his mind ever since it had been uttered the night before. When he'd returned home, yesterday, Echia and the twins had already been asleep; and in the morning he had got up early and left her a message, because he didn't want to face her. He could never hide anything from his wife; she'd know right away when something was on his mind. Sooner or later face her he had to, though, and now that time had come.
Echia turned to say something to the children; then her form disappeared from the lit frame of the window. Ga'we closed his eyes, dizzy at the thought that she might be taken away from him like that, in an instant, and with her the child she carried in her womb. He couldn't allow that, and for what? For an alien? A stranger who had dropped by them uninvited?
Mayweather's dark face suddenly appeared against his mind's backdrop, and he flashed his eyes open. Good heaven, what would become of him now? How far would Dvo'we push himself in his quest for power and success?
But the question that haunted him most was: what about his own professional integrity? How would he ever be able to call himself a doctor, how could he go on practising, after forfeiting a life?
Malcolm kept on unhurriedly, hands deep in his trouser pockets. He knew someone was following him. He hadn't seen the person, hadn't glanced in the shops' windows to try and catch the reflected image of his pursuer as they did in spy movies; but he didn't need to. Yes, he was definitely being tagged. His sixth sense never failed.
That was the good news. He stopped dead in his tracks. The bad news was that he had taken the wrong turn and entered a dead end. Dammit!
He made a quick survey of the alley: back-doors, overflowing garbage bins… not one bloody place to hide. Steps, behind him. Stopping. Brilliant. He was thoroughly and utterly -
Heart in his throat, Malcolm flashed his eyes open. Darkness surrounded him and his alarm-clock was hammering the same old note. With a groan he twisted and slapped a hand – old style – to stop it; then collapsed back on his pillow.
He hadn't dreamt of his past in a long while. Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly, wishing his anxiety out of him as well. That time – the time of the dream – he had got out of it only because the person following him had been no foe. The carelessness with which he had almost signed his demise had left a deep mark on him; and the memory once in a while resurfaced, as a bad dream, if not as a warning in situations of danger. Like the one he was about to embark on. With the mission impending, his subconscious had clearly gone to poke at that carefully repressed memory that belonged to a phase of his life he liked to consider closed.
Another sigh inflated his ribcage. He didn't like the fact that there was a part of him Archer ignored; but Harris had sworn him to secrecy, and up to now he had just as carefully avoided the issue of this divided loyalty. The thing was his conscience gave him hell if he thought of it and hell if he ignored it. In truth, it was a problem without solution.
Malcolm ordered the lights on and threw his legs off the bed, sitting up. Leaning with his elbows on his knees, he tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. He had known it wouldn't be a good idea to get Phlox's magic potion when he could only catch four hours of 'shuteye'. He had recommended that the dose be the lowest, but it was never like waking up from a 'normal' sleep; he felt more sluggish. Besides, four hours were hardly enough to recoup all that he had lost, and had only served to make him ache for more. Ah – he couldn't blame Archer for ordering him, actually. He would've done the same, in his shoes. Good thing he had allowed himself a good hour before his departure.
Pushing to his feet, he stretched. There were a few things to do. A shower; food – never go on a mission on an empty stomach; seeing Müller about his duties in his absence; talking to-
The bell interrupted his mental list.
He passed a hand through his unkempt hair; then shuffled to the door and palmed it open. Trip's face appeared.
"Have you brought me breakfast?" Malcolm quipped.
"No, but I've brought you something else that you might like."
Without asking, the Engineer pushed past him. Malcolm closed the door and turned, tilting his head in puzzlement at the bundle in his friend's hands.
"What's that?"
"Your Superhero costume."
Malcolm shifted his eyes briefly away, crossing his arms over his chest. "Come again?"
Eyes bright, Trip unfurled a jacket, holding it up for Malcolm to see. It had an additional pair of sleeves attached below the normal ones, with makeshift hands sticking out.
"I've been busy, while you slept."
Malcolm frowned, shaking his head. "Come on, Trip, you can see they're fake from a mile away."
"Not if you put them in your pockets."
Hm. He hadn't thought of that. "It might work," Malcolm agreed after a moment of consideration. "Though I'm not planning to parade in front of any of those aliens. I'll keep to the shade."
"Phlox will make you up to look pale." Trip's mouth pulled in a lopsided smirk and he jerked his head sideways. "I mean paler."
"Thanks," Malcolm groaned. But Trip didn't smile; he looked preoccupied.
"That girl Travis danced with…" he said, biting his lip. "I've racked my brain, but I can't remember her name."
"Not a problem. I remember her well, if anything for her stunning eyes."
"Yeah, they were definitely easier to remember than her name," Trip said, letting himself go to a tense chuckle. He sobered up quickly. "Take care of yourself down there," he said quietly.
Harris must have told him the same thing a dozen times; but his only concern was the possible loss of a man. Trip was worried about losing a friend, and it felt very different. It felt nice.
"I'll be all right, don't worry," Malcolm said, with a tentative smile. He wanted to add 'I've done this before', but the words died on his lips, and he felt like a traitor.
TBC
Thank you to my reviewers! Loads of cookies.
