'All I'm sayin' is that this mission, whether it succeeds or not, is lookin' more like a one-way ticket all the time.'
Trip's words hung in Malcolm's ears like a curse as he made his way back towards the Armoury.
He'd been appalled by the ease and efficiency with which Enterprise had been boarded and robbed. Weapons, food and fuel: the three things without which their quest was even more hopeless than it had looked to start with. And as if those hadn't been terrible enough losses, on a more personal note they'd also lost one of his department's specialists, Crewman Fuller. He'd recruited Fuller personally, desperately wanting someone with that kind of expertise on his team now that it was imperative their weapons be at their maximum efficiency for when they finally encountered the Xindi. He'd persuaded him and his fellow technician, Rob Darcy, that they'd be of far more use aboard Enterprise than in R&D. Both of them were so talented that in ordinary circumstances their department heads would have hung on to them tooth and nail, but the Xindi probe had changed everything; what Enterprise asked for, Enterprise got. And now Fuller was dead.
He hadn't got around to speaking about it to the other half of what had, to his surprise, turned out to be the Armoury's very own 'comedy duo'. The pair of them combined a deep friendship with an affiliation to two of the teams who were possibly the most virulent rivals in the English Football League. Their flow of abuse of each other's teams had enlivened many a dreary hour, and once he'd discovered that it was actually part of their working relationship and didn't affect their work in the slightest he'd allowed it to continue, on the understanding that it wasn't to irritate or distract anyone else who happened to be in the room with them.
The silence in the Armoury before their advent had used to be comforting. Now, he was going to find it deafening.
At some point or another one of his duties as Fuller's commanding officer would be to supervise the packing away of his effects for return to whoever he would have nominated as next of kin if and when they returned to Earth. At a guess, having been a silent and resigned witness to many an exchange between Crewman Fuller and Crewman Darcy over the respective merits of Southampton and Portsmouth Football Clubs, he could guess there would be a couple of pieces of memorabilia among the dead man's possessions; crew quarters didn't have the space to accommodate much by way of homely touches, but it was a fair bet there would be a match programme or a team photo somewhere. On one of their longer spells of duty together before they launched on the mission (working on the torpedo launchers, of all things, during which his already high opinion of his new junior's skills had risen several more notches), he'd actually allowed himself to be talked into going to see a match at St Mary's Stadium on his next visit to England, which was to convert him instantly into a devoted follower of football.
Well. As unlikely as that was, the new crewman's face had brightened with delight at the prospect. "You won't regret it, sir!" he'd said eagerly. "And we can grab a pie and a pint with the lads in the pub afterwards!"
'A pie and a pint.' Good grief. An instant recipe for chronic dyspepsia if ever he heard one. But a Reed didn't go back on his word.
They hadn't had time to fit in the promised visit to England during the refit, of course; there had been far too many other, vital things to think of and do. 'But we will when we've got those Xindi bastards sorted, won't we, sir?' Fuller's face rose before Malcolm's mind's eye, indefatigably cheerful even after a triple shift fighting to get the upgrades sorted.
It'll be the first thing on my schedule, Crewman, he'd replied solemnly. The rest of the weary team had erupted into laughter; even Darcy had been chuckling too much to vaunt the superior charms of the play to be seen at Fratton Park.
For Crewman Frank Fuller, the mission had already become a one-way ticket. To the last 'away game' of all.
"Lieutenant?"
The voice of one of the few lights left in his world brought him out of his dark reverie. They were on duty. Others were in earshot. Therefore it was 'Lieutenant' and 'Ensign'.
He blinked. He was standing at the guidance system console over which he and the captain had spent the day working. It might hold out during another exchange of fire; it might not. The results of the tests he'd been running were not particularly informative on that score. "Ensign?"
"You forgot your tea. Commander Tucker asked if I'd drop it off if I was passing." Hoshi handed it to him. Under cover of the movement her fingertips caressed the inside of his wrist, mutely offering consolation.
"Thank you." From somewhere he found a tiny, private smile. On ordinary days he'd have finished his shift an hour ago; today, with all the repairs still to carry out, he still had eight hours to do before, under the safety regulations, he had to take a break for sleep. Under those circumstances, caffeine was a lifeline he couldn't do without. Unlike Trip, he had no difficulty sleeping; once off duty, he fell into his bed and slept like a dead dog. Carefully he removed both himself and the tea to a safe distance from anything that could be damaged by accidental spillage, and stood sipping it. As a general rule liquids weren't allowed in here, and Trip would have known that, but for this once he'd make an exception. And drink it at once, to minimise the risk.
She should have walked away, back to the Bridge or wherever she'd been headed when Trip recruited her for the mission of mercy with the tea. But she paused for just a moment longer.
"You looked as though you were miles away." There was a little question in her voice.
He nodded. "I was just ... remembering."
"I heard about it." Her tone was very soft. "If you want a hand with sorting his things..."
"No. Thank you for the offer, but no. I should be the one to do that." He drew a deep breath. "Ensign, do you know anything about football?"
"Soccer, you mean? I've watched a couple of games. I don't say I understand it all. I'd have thought that was more your area of expertise, sir. Being English," she added.
"Oh, I played it at school. I was thinking more along the lines of, well, finding out if there might be something, some piece of music ... associated with Fuller's favourite football team, that he might like played during the service." He met her eyes with a rueful smile. "I'd ask Darcy but, well, it seems a bit ... so I thought it might be a job for the ship's detective."
"Begging your pardon, sir." Another voice broke in. Crewman Darcy had been working on one of the torpedoes in the adjoining storage area, but he'd obviously come in unnoticed to help a couple of the other crewmen crouching behind the further of the two launch platforms, where he'd been out of sight. He was therefore scarcely more than a couple of metres away; he couldn't have helped but overhear. Now he rose, and spoke quietly but resolutely. "I can save Ensign Sato a job, sir. The fans at St Mary's always sing, 'When The Saints Go Marching In'. 'Cause that's what Southampton's nickname is. 'The Saints'." He looked down, seeming to swallow something in his throat. "Never thought I'd see the day when I'd be singing it, sir."
Emotional issues were a minefield to Malcolm. He ventured into them only with extreme caution, knowing too well that he was all too likely to step on something that went 'boom!'. Now, however, some kindly divinity lent him the right words for once. "Thank you for the information, Crewman," he said gravely. "And perhaps after all this is over, you and I can go along next time Portsmouth play Southampton, and we might even grab a pie and a pint afterwards."
"I reckon Frank would like that fine, sir," said Darcy quietly.
Malcolm bent over his work again, and the Armoury staff followed suit in a companionable silence.
But he could still see Hoshi's parting smile.
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