Chapter 12 Earhart
Suddenly, without any warning, the Nausicaan ship had gone to warp.
I was immediately at the controls, activating my long range scanners.
"What's happening?" Reed called from the rug.
"They're leaving."
"Get after them!" he cried, but he didn't have to tell me. I was already on their tail. They were going warp 1.08, presumably their top speed, and the heading would take them straight to Nausicaa.
I turned to Reed "They're going home," I told him.
"That means they found the osmium." His face darkened with despair. "Phlox…," he breathed.
"Maybe…maybe they didn't…"
Reed shook his head. "I doubt they'll keep him alive for long now. Why would they?"
I could think of a few reasons, none of them all that preferable to decapitation.
"Stay on them," he said, "don't lose them. If they think we might be a threat, maybe they'll keep Phlox alive as a reassurance hostage."
I adjusted Amazon's speed and position to follow just a few dozen kilometers in their wake, close enough to get their attention. And indeed, after a while the crackle of the comm channel announced that they had taken notice.
"Limproots! Pitiful failures! Go to thy nursery and suckle thy toes. Osmium no longer thine. Defeat!" The little translator sounded downright hysterical with glee.
"This is Floppybags, you assholes," I yelled back angrily. "Give us back our friend or I'll scorch your balls with my laser."
There was laughter, and then, "Thy laser would not heat our soup. Roundgut our friend now. Go home, or head chop."
Reed and I exchanged a hopeful glance. Ah, so Phlox was still alive. Although 'Roundgut our friend now' didn't bode too well for the doctor's future prospects.
We agreed it was best to back off a bit and follow at a distance. I sent another distress call relaying our course change. If only we had more firepower, we might have a shot at taking them down and retrieving Phlox and the osmium, but that wouldn't happen until help arrived. Which could take quite a while longer.
We spent a couple of hours in silence, each left to our own thoughts. I set the autopilot to follow the other ship at a constant distance, then sat in the pilot seat and chewed off my fingernails. I was thinking I could really use a drink.
I turned a few times to check on Reed, who was lying stretched out on my rug, his jaw working, staring at the bulkhead. He looked comfortable enough, physically at least, although there were no signs of returning muscle control as yet. I knew he was beating himself to a pulp inside, over this botched mission and what might happen to Phlox, never mind those hundred-plus Tellarite children if the osmium was lost. Possibly, the Vulcans could be convinced to send more, but it would take time, and Phlox had made it clear that the majority of those kids would not survive unless they received treatment within a few days.
After a long period of silence, I heard Reed mumble under his breath, and then, quietly, "Bloody hell."
I was beginning to think that was his signature phrase.
I turned to look at him. "What's the matter?"
"Never mind," he clipped, but it was clear from the sour expression on him that he did mind something very much.
"Are you uncomfortable?" I asked, thinking a bit of kind concern might lighten his mood. "Uh…you want me to bring you a pillow…?"
"It's not that," he snapped.
I shrugged and turned my back on him. Let him suffer then, if he was going to be in a snit. He was quiet for a while after that, but then I heard him grunt and breathe something that sounded like "bollocks".
I turned and looked at him again. He met my eyes and I swear I saw a blush rise in his face.
His gaze dropped and he said quietly, "it's the tea."
"What tea?" I asked, flabbergasted.
"The tea I had for dinner," he snapped, all barbs and consonants again. "If you recall, I drank a rather large quantity."
I did recall. Three cups. This was a good three, four hours ago now. So what?
And then it suddenly dawned on me what he was trying to say. I sat up straight in alarm.
"If you pee on my rug, I'll throw you out the hatch," I blurted, instantly cursing my loose tongue. So much for making the man more comfortable.
"Bugger your bloody rug," Reed growled savagely. The man was on the edge, clearly.
"You can't hold it?"
He just gave me a murderous look. Well, I supposed that was too much to ask. It could be hours yet before the effects of the paralyzer wore off enough for him to drag himself to the can, and we both knew it.
After the effort it took to haul him in here, I didn't quite see myself hoisting sixty-five completely limp kilograms of pissed-off Englishman to the loo, propping him up in front of the bowl and aiming little Lord Malcolm for him while he…..oh…yes, but that was it, wasn't it? And right there, suddenly, the solution came to me. Yes! Brilliant. That should work.
I jumped off my seat. "Stay where you are," I told him unnecessarily, and headed for my liquor cabinet.
Sacrifices had to be made. It was either my bottle of Romulan ale or my carpet. Oh hell then, bottoms up! It had taken me a year to drink the first half of that bottle, and it took all of twenty seconds to drink the rest. It occurred to me then that I should have offered some of it to Reed – but on second thought, the man had other worries at the moment. I knew I'd pay for it though; Romulan Ale famously hits your blood stream with lightning speed. But first, I had a delicate job to do.
I dropped down to my knees at his side, waving the empty bottle in his face. "Your turn!"
Of course he complained a bit.
"Get your paws off me. This is completely inappropriate," spitting those p's at me like they were cherry pits. But I ignored him and went to work. I figured he'd be grateful enough when it was over.
I fumbled a bit with his zipper and then maneuvered his arms out of the jumpsuit. Reed was staring at the ceiling, those lines around his mouth all sharp and tight. Clearly, total helplessness was not his thing. I rolled the jumpsuit fabric past his torso, past his butt – yeah, nicely tight, that one – and down to his thighs, and then fumbled with the buttons of his black undershirt. The sights were already beginning to dip a bit before my eyes. And those buttons were way too small. Microscopic, impossible things. With a grunt, I just ripped his shirt open, sending the damn things flying around the cabin.
"Would you mind taking some care, that's Starfleet property," came a pissy voice. "And what the hell do you need to open my shirt for anyway? The object of interest is located a bit further south."
"Bugger your bloody Starfleet", I told him. I pushed up his shirt a bit and paused with my hands on his belly, admiring the firm muscles around his tight waist. He really wasn't badly put together, I thought as I ran my hands over his hip bones. Somebody harrumphed – oops, that would be Reed again. Yes, back to the job – further south – down went his blue underpants, over his butt – I did take a sweet moment to squeeze those lovely cheeks – and yep, there he was: the object of interest. Litty bitty Lord Malcolm.
I paused for a moment to have a look. Not so litty, actually. I shook my swimming head to clear it – alright, important job to do. To work then. Taking a deep breath, I took a firm grip of His Lordship with one hand and the bottle with the other. I think I heard Reed grunt. Or was that me? I focused. Or tried to, amidst the swirling. Now seriously, how hard could this be? Pretty hard, as it turned out. Rather like threading a needle while straddling the warp nacelle in the middle of an ion storm. It wasn't helped by the fact that Mr. Armory Officer was packing a surprisingly large caliber for such a small critter and that the neck of the bottle was rather, well, narrow. In hindsight, I should have used the Klingon blood wine, except that bottle had still been nearly full…
"For pity's sake, will you get on with it?" Reed snarled in the background. "And lighten your grip a bit, if you would? I may yet decide to have offspring in the future."
Blah, blah, blah, I thought in my swimming brain. I never liked it when they talked too much during sex. Like that huge oaf with the scars who belted out Klingon opera in the middle of the act. If you've never heard Klingon opera, think 'rutting season' on the prairies ….…..whoa, did I just say sex? Wait a moment, that wasn't what we were doing here. What again…..then why did I have a guy's dick in my hand? And a bottle in the other? …oh yeah… that time on Risa…. beach…. moonlight… when that fat little….
"Bloody hell! Now, if you please!"
Alright, woman, focus! Thread that needle. I made one last heroic effort, and with a squelch, Litty went home. "Docking clamps engaged, Cap," I informed him triumphantly, and I think maybe I giggled.
And he went. And went. And went. That bottle held at least a liter, but here I was becoming worried. Just as I was contemplating which of my treasures I had to sacrifice next, he stopped. Just at the fill mark.
When I pulled him out, it made a bit of a plopping sound, and Reed let out a long breath, deflating like a big balloon.
"Goo' boy," I slurred, or at least I think that's what I said. Reed said something too, under his breath, but I didn't catch what. I petted him on the thigh and pulled his briefs back up, giving Litty one last friendly squeeze goodbye. Things were twirling, whirling, swirling, but I was still in control, absolutely, totally in control. I looked at the bottle. What a shame. Shame, shame, shame. Best get rid of it while I still had some coordination. I held the bottle by the neck with two fingers, climbed to my feet, and took it to the toilet. I was about to pour it where it belonged, when I had an idea. A brilliant idea. An absolute bloodyliciously magnificent genius idea. The kind of idea you only get with half a bottle of Romulan Ale inside you. So instead I just wiped it off real well, corked it back up and then restored it to my booze cabinet, arranging it just-so between the Kentucky bourbon and the Andorian ice liqueur. Ale a la Reed. Heh.
Things went a bit fuzzy then and I don't remember anything after that.
