A/N: Since when have I ever made good on my promises? I sat down to write the final chapter, and I wound up deciding to split it in two. As with most major events in my life thus far, I'm intimidated by the prospect of having a finished fic. It's been a labor of love, and the climax of the action is now. This chapter does indeed contain a major character death. Yes, the clinical, detached sounding ending and the multiple perspective changes are intentional. I'm working on fixing all of these freaky formatting issues that come along with doing direct uploads.
In all seriousness, I hope it makes you upset. I hope it makes you contemplate what could have gone differently, and I hope it makes you anticipate what I'm about to drop on you next week. It may not seem like it now, but you have my word there shall be resolution yet. Bubbala, gay ga zinta hate.
Right Direction, Wrong Occasion
Chapter Eleven, Part One
When he entered her quarters, it was dark save for the light of a single meditation candle. They had foregone the use of door chimes weeks ago, calibrating the locking apparatus to accept his personal access code. It had become necessary to maintain some modicum of discretion as they waded further into the waters of their relationship.
He found her crouched in the corner of the chamber, wrapped in a blanket that he knew she had brought from her childhood home as a comfort object of some sort. So many evenings wrapped up in it with her, relaying benign stories from their past and whispering soothing words to each other—he knew how much his companionship meant to her. He was too blind in what he had just done to connect her current behavior with past incidents, so he only approached her with open arms.
"Darling?" He began cautiously, observing how she trembled and hid her face from his gaze. As he stepped closer, he tripped over a cylinder of some sorts. He collected it and examined the casing in the dull light—a discharged hypospray that held only remnants of an inky fluid. His heart leapt up in a single instance and he fell to his knees to close the distance between them.
"What is this, T'Pol?" Malcolm asked and placed his open palms on her knees. When there was no response, he clasped her shoulders roughly and demanded, "Answer me!"
As he forced her to look up, he was taken aback at her expression of pure, naked horror. She keened away from him, and on a split second impulse Malcolm attempted to haul her to her feet. She was unresponsive, only falling forward and beginning to sob.
Behind her, he held the hypospray up to the light and studied how it faintly shimmered in the light. He tentatively pressed a digit to the discharge site and felt its consistency, praying inwardly that it not be true, it couldn't be.
A beat later, he dropped it again and found his tone of voice dangerously loud as he cried, "How long?"
Suddenly, inexplicably, he was angry. Angry at his circumstance, angry that he had not been able to seen this coming. Angry that he had not been properly attentive to his beloved. And, dimly angry at her for not sharing this information with him.
T'Pol made a feeble attempt to sit up, but only made it about halfway before collapsing again. It was then he noticed a red, angry blemish at the base of her neck, irritated from so frequent self-administered dosages. She began to speak for the first time since Malcolm had entered her quarters, although her mind was reeling off phrases in Vulcan.
"It would have helped us shield the ship from the…and we couldn't use it because of—"
"You—" his voice took on a feverish pitch as he collected her in his arms. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and greedily inhaled air in desperation. "What happened aboard the Seleya—"
"I never thought that—"
It all made since to him now. Her secrecy, her sudden and erratic behaviors…had she only pursued him because of her addiction? Had it really all been a lie?
Minutes passed, perhaps an hour, before he released her and observed her wipe the remnants of tears from her highly-swept cheekbones. He brushed her hands aside and attended to the task himself.
"Listen to me," he whispered, noticing how her pupils dilated under his gaze. He was struggling to grasp for words that he had not had the courage to express for a long time. He finally settled on an abrupt, "Why?"
"The Vulcans aboard the Seleya…I felt how they felt, and I relished the opportunity to experience emotion not held back by my…" She became cognizant of his hurt expression and hurried to assuage his fears. "It's not like…I care for you!" T'Pol had finally made her first complete sentence in the duration of this entire ordeal. "Deeply." Then softly, "I do."
He crushed her to his chest again and savored the sensation of her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. It was his turn to reassure her. "We don't have to tell them."
At her startled expression, he admonished, "As long as you promise me a single thing."
"Anything." Her voice was steady, ardent.
"Never." He took a breath before intoning, "Never. Again."
In the extended period of companionable silence that followed, the only thing verbally expressed was an out of place, "Agreed."
-0-
Hours later, as the overhead lights in the corridors of Enterprise were brightened to simulate daytime, a majority of the bridge crew gathered in the room where the Xindi star charts were housed. Trip Tucker called forth a diagram of the weapon, the results of a fruitful excursion he and Ensign Mayweather had taken down to the planet. He explained how the complex had been built underwater so as to avoid suspicion, and that would also explain why so much of the alien pod's power had been routed to structural integrity. Malcolm had only half listened, as his mind was elsewhere.
At some point in the evening they had lain down together and he had spent an indeterminable amount of time rubbing small circles on her back and taking note of how her breathing occasionally lapsed into irregular, ravening gasps as his bondmate was seized by yet another nightmare. Her lips moved against his neck, ghosts of words, incomprehensible. Twice her entire person seized up and he wrapped a leg around her waist to keep her from returning to the fetal position. All the while he wondered, begging for an answer to whatever greater power there may be, oh Lord, heavenly father, how could I have let this happen?
He faintly recalled at the beginning of their relationship, how he had sworn he would never allow his attention to lapse. How he would attend to her every need and make sure that she was nothing but satisfied with him. An overwhelming sense of failure and, worst of all, dread, pervaded his senses. It suddenly occurred to Malcolm that just what he had feared had come to pass. He had fallen back in to Harris' trap, he had allowed petty romantic competition to get in the way of his true purpose, and he was now, without glossing over the truth of the matter, a would-be assassin. Murder. Malcolm Stuart Reed was about to commit capital murder. He was prepared to slay a commanding officer, a noble man with the true interest of humanity in mind, however skewed and ineffectual his methods may be.
The part of his mind which still clung steadfastly to a businesslike efficiency encouraged him to abandon all rationality and take a human life. He couldn't simply fathom it. Somewhere on the course of this mission, he had become the kind of man that always believed that the end should justify whatever means he might have to take. If he hadn't considered that it was for the good of humanity and not himself, it would have been downright Machiavellian. Suddenly, Malcolm was immensely conflicted. Slowly, silently, long overdue tears began to stream down his face.
"It's definitely in the final phases of construction," Commander Tucker's voice shocked him out of his reverie. "Most of the work being done seems maintenance related."
"I've gone over the scans you brought back," he says, and it's true. Just before he had planted the device that would bring an end to Captain Archer. "That's the explosive matrix. If we can get close enough, we can set up a chain reaction that will blow this thing to high heaven."
There's a sense of satisfaction he gets from saying that. The original mission to protect humanity would be accomplished after all.
"The initial explosion would have to be of considerable yield," T'Pol advises, and her expression is hard and unmoving. He remembers watching her attempt to collect herself before they left her quarters. As desperately as she was trying to mimic her previously calm demeanor that she had sported during the early months of Enterprise's mission, she was failing.
"A couple of photonic torpedoes should do the trick," he is illogically proud of her for maintaining her focus on the task at hand.
"There's room in the shuttle," Trip's voice is reverent, but then Jonathan says what they've all been thinking.
"We're talking about a one-way trip," they all nod at this, gravely.
"I should be the one to go," the helmsman cuts in before anyone else can volunteer. Malcolm can see it in his eyes. He would relish the opportunity for such a selfless sacrifice.
"Forget it!"
"I'm the only one that can pilot that shuttle." They all know that it's true, but are reluctant to admit that none of them have even achieved proficiency with the complicated controls.
"I practiced on those controls, I can get 'er in." Trip's not about to let this one go.
"But I've actually done it!" Travis' tone is dangerously close to insubordination.
The engineer doesn't take the bait. "Captain, you want a senior officer on this. Don't you?"
Malcolm quickly cuts a look to T'Pol, as if to say, you had better not. She doesn't appear to challenge him. The relief is momentary before Archer says something that makes his breath catch.
"I'll be flying the mission," his declaration is followed by a bit of haggling by Commander Tucker, but he quickly acquiesces. Reed nearly misses it, as the blood is now roaring in his ears and his palms have gone sweaty.
He turns abruptly and exits the room soon after the Captain, thumbing for the countdown initializing device in his pocket. Now he feels as if he might slip in to an untimely cardiac arrest.
It's not there.
-0-
T'Pol's not taking the news well, but that might as well be the understatement of the year.
I find her in the Captain's ready room nearly two hours after he's departed for the weapon. The crew is sullen, deferential, and I need her on the bridge.
She's focused on the computer screen as I enter, all business, with a PADD in hand. It doesn't take a mind reader to tell that she's troubled. I sigh, shuffle my feet a little, and say, "Still nothing."
The response is almost instantaneous, "I'm aware of that." The bite in her voice is razor sharp.
"It's been over two hours. He should have reached the weapon by now. Travis and I got there in twenty-five minutes, and we didn't know where to look."
I bite my lip before continuing, "You think it's possible that our sensors might have missed the explosion?" I already know the answer. With incendiary devices of that quality? Not a chance.
T'Pol shakes her head, but still hasn't looked at me. "Doubtful."
"Whatever you're doing, can it wait?" To hell with subtlety, I'm going for the direct approach.
"For what?" she questions, as if she doesn't know.
"Right now…" I've got to tread carefully. I don't want to hurt any chance I've got at reconciliation. If Archer doesn't make it—which, of course he won't—it'll just be us. We're going to have to relearn how to work as a hive mind. "Your place is on the bridge."
"I'll be notified if my presence is needed." Her voice has become softer. She's dodging the issue.
"No matter what happens to the Xindi weapon, the Captain isn't coming back." I'm voicing my own thoughts and giving her a reality check. "You're in command now. The crew needs to know you're on top of things, and it doesn't help if you're holed up in here."
"I don't need any leadership advice!" She turns her head to face me, and I can see uninhibited emotion in her eyes. If I hadn't been prepared for this, I would've been frightened by their intensity. Still, her words sting.
"I'm just trying to help. This isn't easy for any of us." I pray silently she knows that I'm not just talking about Archer's departure, but about so much more.
T'Pol struggles to gain control, keening forward and backward minutely in her chair. I whisper her name, and she returns with, "Dismissed."
"Dismissed?" I hadn't expected this rejection of the olive branch.
Her next words are nothing but blunt. "Get out."
I'm reluctant to leave her. I make eye contact with Hoshi as I proceed to the turbolift, hoping to convey all that I need from her and more.
We've got to have a Plan B.
-0-
After nearly tearing the armory apart in search of the errant device, Malcolm arrives at the pertinent section of B Deck and groans inwardly as he sees a pair of work boots sticking out of the crawlspace he was arranging to enter. He clears his throat and one of his people, the Crewman Lucia Rossi, emerges covered in grease and lubricating fluid.
"Lieutenant!" She's surprised. "Commander Tucker passed me in the hallway and asked that I run one last check of our weaponry sensors. He seems to think there's a possibility that we might have missed the detonation of the…" Rossi trails off, noticing the way in which he's clenched his fists at his sides and is bouncing on his toes. "Sir, are you—"
"I'm fine, Crewman. How much longer do you think you'll be?"
"Well, you're welcome to crawl in behind me if you want to check some—"
"That's fine." He bows slightly at the waist, as if to apologize to the woman for interrupting her multiple times. As his anxiety grows, his behavior becomes more and more erratic.
Before she can say anything else, he's gone.
T'Pol catches his eye as he passes her in the corridor, beseeching him to follow her to the bridge. He relents and listens as she proceeds to make Crewman Rossi's labor obsolete.
Trip is reluctant to accept that all of their efforts to find the weapon is for naught, and says they should send a second shuttle to finish the job. Malcolm agrees hurriedly, and finds solace in the notion that he and Commander Tucker can at least agree on something.
"This system is heavily guarded. Our chances of reaching the weapon are non-existent."
"We can't just sit here." Trip cautions. Even their chances of escape are dangerously low.
"What do you suppose we do?" Malcolm lowers his voice, asking almost tenderly. For once, Trip doesn't react. They're both unsure of trusting her expertise in the shape that she's in. Only one of them may know the particulars of her addiction, but intuition reigns supreme as it always does.
"There's still a possibility that the Captain may succeed."
"The longer we wait here, the greater the likelihood we may be spotted." Reed is restless, eager to return to his search for the trigger nodule or else find some reason to order his crewman away from that damn crawlspace.
"If we don't hear from the Captain within one hour, I'll pilot a shuttlepod into the system."
That suggestion seems so outlandish to him that he scoffs as she formulates a feeble back-up plan. A…diplomatic solution? There was a time that he would have considered that, but the farther they retreated into the Expanse the more he became accustomed to the fact that some matters needed to be dealt with in the least proper and discreet manner as possible. After all, had years of training as an operative for Section 31 been for naught?
"You can't possibly believe that that has any chance of success!"
"The odds aren't promising, but the fact that I'm Vulcan may help me establish some form of dialogue."
She can't be serious. Under the influence of Trellium D, she's more emotional than a dozen humans concentrated and combined. Malcolm crosses his arms, trying to express how incredulous he finds the situation.
"You'll just be captured! Or killed!" The thought is petrifying to him. He cannot afford to lose both his honor and the woman he loves in one foul swoop. He would truly have nothing left.
-0-
Less than half an hour later, however, T'Pol is en route to the shuttle bay with Trip Tucker in pursuit.
"I don't think you're doing this to make peace. I think you're trying to save the Captain." He feels as if he should be the last one to point someone out for not keeping the best interest of the mission in perspective, but he can't let her do this.
"You're wrong," she hisses and continues on her path. T'Pol's head is pounding and at the moment she would give anything, simply anything, to make it stop. It's been nearly twenty-four hours since her past dosage, and she's running dangerously low on a new brand of liquid courage.
"Why do I get the feeling that you haven't thought this through?"
"You've made your objections clear! Now, return to the bridge!" She is filled with an overwhelming desire to resolve this situation and pacify her bondmate. His disappointment and disbelief in her radiated off of him in waves. It was only time before he left her entirely and she finally realized that yes, she was going to succumb to this deadly dependence sooner rather than later.
"I'm not just going to watch you fly off and die!"
"I gave you an order!"
"T'Pol!" He calls out to her just as she begins to descend down the steps to the shuttlepod, understanding that this is his last chance. He can't just let her die like this. Of all the people aboard this ship, his dearest friend deserves to be safe.
"Let go of me!" Her voice is reaching a dangerously high pitch.
"I won't let you do this!"
"I said let go!" she all but screeches those words, so he complies.
"What the hell is wrong with you?!" His next retort is impersonal and distinctly out of place for such a delicate situation. However, it gives her pause long enough to hear the comm chime. It's Malcolm, and they've got more important matters to attend to.
-0-
Malcolm had been hesitant to approach the crawlspace after he'd noted Crewman Rossi's departure, but the sensation of relief he experienced whenever he discovered that he had forgotten to sync the timer on the bomb with the device that he had lost was overpowering. Although he did not deserve it, he'd been given a chance at redemption. Even so, when Enterprise's sensors detected a squadron of Xindi ships approaching, he was reacquainted with the inevitable.
They had been under attack for less than ten minutes, and they were not doing so well. Dozens of injury reports were coming in from all over the ship, the comm was down, and the deck all but rolled under his feet. T'Pol's attention was lapsing, and he wondered briefly how that could be possible. She kept glancing over at him, as if she needed to advise him of something urgent. He hadn't the time to think about it as the bridge's overhang collapsed, nearly smothering Travis Mayweather and almost taking out his beloved in the process.
A myriad of explosions and falling beams shook the bridge as Reed realized that they were venting atmosphere and the bulkheads that would have secured the pertinent sections of the ship were unresponsive. It became apparent that many critical systems were in danger of overloading, and he powered down all but critical life support in uninhabited areas of Enterprise in order to keep their now negligible shielding online. He began, quietly, to make half-hearted appeals to the creator that many often spoke of and whom he hadn't called upon for assistance since his childhood. He preferred to make his own luck, but that was about to run out.
"We're reading power junction overloads on D, C, B and—" The young Ensign at the science station didn't even have time to finish before the deck plating under the captain's chair exploded, sending sparks and the sole Vulcan occupant flying.
-0-
Days had passed since the attack, and there were many repairs still yet to be done. The Xindi had inexplicably moved off shortly after the fact, and Archer was returned by way of an Aquatic transport vessel a few hours after that. Enterprise was left to lick its wounds, to seek shelter in the accessory dust field of a long-gone comet. It was there they encountered the Illyrians, and their next moral and ethical dilemma.
However, Malcolm kept finding himself in sickbay after his extended duty shift, dozing fitfully in a chair while his incapacitated bondmate fought to breathe. He was, in fact, there when she awoke for the first time, speaking soft, soothing words to her as he peppered her cool, clammy brow with kisses; Phlox had to ask him to leave just so he could conduct a more thorough examination without the Lieutenant's unwanted intervention. Once he had retreated from the biobed, scanner in hand, Malcolm returned, grasping her hand and pleading with her to stay alive, if not for him, for the ship and everyone within it. Yes, it was true that he was there when the doctor and his assistant finally managed to isolate the internal problem, removing the shattered floating ribs at the base of her sternum. Circumstantially, it was he who was there when she breathed her last with his name on her lips. Almost instantly the biobed began to herald the sudden changes, letting out an earsplitting alarm that made the doctor come running. Pushing him aside, he set to reviving the science officer. But, for T'Pol as well as Malcolm, it was too late; they were already numb.
to be continued (one last time)