"You wanted to see me, sir."
He was good at hiding what he needed to hide; his life had depended on it too often. He stood now at parade rest, immaculately neat and correct. His eyes were fixed on the bulkhead opposite him and his face was void of expression.
As soon as the order was given for him to remain behind in the Ready Room after the initial briefing he'd had a good idea what would be the subject under discussion. Nobody looking at him would have known that his stomach muscles were so tightly clenched they hurt, and that his brain was a maelstrom of pain, anger and exhaustion from too many nights of broken sleep.
"I want you to be a part of the away team, Malcolm." The captain spoke levelly. "I'm aware that you may still have ... issues. I just want your assurance that they won't affect your performance when we're down there."
Don't worry, Captain. I've never yet shot my commanding officer in the back. However great the provocation. Quite possibly he'd have blushed if he hadn't been pale with anger at the implied insult to his professionalism.
"I can promise you that they won't, sir."
"Malcolm." Archer's voice was quieter, perhaps even a little pleading. "This has got to be worked out. We need all of us on board if we're going to succeed in this mission."
"Any ... 'personal issues' have never affected my professional conduct, sir." His tone was so cold that icicles hung from every syllable, and the other man drew back at the sound of it. "I'll carry out my duties to the letter, as I always have done, whatever and wherever. Further than that, I'd prefer to consider the subject of my 'issues' as private."
"When they affect the performance of two officers on this ship, then 'private' no longer applies," snapped the captain.
"As I've already assured, you, sir, they won't affect my performance. As for anyone else, I believe you should address them on their performance, rather than me." At the words 'their performance' a hint of fire flickered into his voice; they bore too apt a double edge, and came far too close to his pain for comfort.
Archer looked at him. "In ordinary circumstances, Malcolm, I'd say 'meet me outside, and we'll get this over and done with.' As it is, seven million people are dead and we have a job to do, and that doesn't allow for two of the ship's command personnel getting into a brawl because they can't settle things in a civilized manner. So until it's done, I'm just going to have to rely on your 'professional conduct' with regard to me and your sense of fairness with regard to Hoshi, because none of this was her fault."
"I would prefer to leave Ensign Sato out of the discussion, sir."
"Yes, so would I, but it seems to me that she's being punished for something she couldn't help. I hoped you and she would be able to work it out between you, but I have eyes. You evidently can't."
"With respect – sir." He couldn't keep the quiver of rage under control, so he shut his mouth before the rest of the sentence could escape. That's none of your damned business.
"Oh, it is my business." Archer didn't need to be a telepath to know perfectly well what his subordinate officer had expressly not said. "If anyone was to blame for what happened back there it was me. So I can understand you probably want to punch my daylights out. But she didn't have any say in what happened."
Malcolm kept his jaw clenched. She could have said 'No.' The five words that had tormented his every waking moment. She could have said 'No.'
The captain looked at him steadily. "We don't have time to discuss this right now," he said. "We need to get that formula for the Trellium-D and we need to get it as soon as possible, because the next anomaly might take the ship apart. Meet me at the shuttlebay in ten minutes, with whatever weapons you think you'll need. Trip's coming with us."
With no more than a nod and a stiff 'Sir', he left the Ready Room. He went straight to the turbo-lift, ignoring with difficulty the strained eyes that followed him from the Comm Station. He couldn't look at her; it hurt too much.
He reached the Armoury in a couple of minutes. It was only a few seconds before a phase pistol was nestling in his hand.
Keeping the weaponry ready for instant use was his department's primary responsibility. It was utterly unnecessary to check that the power cell was fully charged, but he did so anyway because that was part of the routine.
Ready to fire, as he'd known it would be. Smooth and deadly. His thumb stroked across the control that changed the setting from 'Stun' to 'Kill'.
I've never yet shot my commanding officer in the back.
But there's always a first time.
He emerged from Decon as soon as Phlox released him.
It had been a difficult half-hour. He had deliberately spent most of it sitting with his eyes closed, ignoring the captain and the slave-woman whom Archer had somehow rescued and decided to bring up to the ship. He and Trip had done the honours for each other with the decontamination gel, and even then he'd been careful to stand so that he didn't have to watch the hands sliding over female skin again.
The circumstances were entirely different; even now he acknowledged that. Not for a moment did he think, even facing away from what was happening, that the captain would act with anything other than absolutely professional correctness. Nevertheless he was utterly unable to separate one from the other. His pulse alternately speeded up and slowed down, as he tried repeatedly to get his breathing under control.
He had to get this sorted somehow. It couldn't go on. Here in the Expanse he needed a clear head as he'd never needed one before.
Whether he wanted to or not, he had to talk to Hoshi.
There were still a couple of hours to go before the end of their shift, however, and he and Trip had to pay another visit to the planet before he was free to pursue his own agenda. The payment for the formula had been agreed, and it would hardly be in keeping with the purported value of the trade goods for them to be brought down without escort. In ordinary circumstances, he thought with a pang, he and Trip would have had a hard time keeping their faces straight as they handed over a case of spices in return for that extremely valuable formula; but then these weren't ordinary circumstances. Ever since the news about the attack on Earth, however, Trip had virtually forgotten how to smile. And in the last few days it wasn't something he himself had exactly felt like doing either. They would be as dour and businesslike as a pair of hoodlums as they carried out the transaction.
Time was, too, when he might even have felt reckless and desperate enough to confide his troubles to Trip and ask his advice. Granted, as one of Jon's oldest friends he would hardly be impartial; but that lack of impartiality wouldn't have stopped him from giving the matter fair consideration. Maybe just being able to share his troubles would have helped. Over the course of the mission Malcolm had fallen into the habit of trusting Trip, of considering him a friend – the best friend he'd ever had, not that he'd ever had many. The sensation now of being unable to turn to him for a sympathetic hearing, and perhaps some good advice, was both new and unwelcome. Although he'd never have admitted it to his face, Reed was fully aware that behind that irksome Yankee accent, reprehensible sense of humour and deplorable sartorial taste, there lurked a keen intellect and a warm and affectionate nature. He'd depended on both more heavily than he'd realised, and now felt the loss of the latter almost as painfully as the separation from Hoshi. Each person in their individual ways had breached the walls of his fortress, and now the cold wind keened through the gaps.
Trip stalked off to the Mess Hall to pick up the spices. Doubtless this would involve some resistance from Chef, who cherished his ingredients with rather more passion than most people did their children. For want of something to do while he waited for him to return, Malcolm decided to pay a visit to the Armoury. He'd have preferred to accompany the new arrival, just to keep a beady eye on her for a while (this being the reason he'd bothered going through Decon), but he'd been waved away. Mr. Paranoid was surplus to requirements as usual. So he had a few minutes to kill.
The Armoury, he was pleased to see, was its usual orderly self. He went into his office as a matter of habit, to see if he had any messages. There were a few, most of which didn't look urgent. But one surprised him: a request for a private meeting from Em, his Gamma Shift deputy. She was asleep right now, so it would have to be later on. She'd suggested a time and a place, and said it was important. He frowned. She wasn't in the habit of making mountains out of molehills, and she was so good at looking after her own team that he could hardly remember more than a couple of occasions during the entire mission when she'd referred any problem to him because she couldn't deal with it. It certainly must be something fairly serious, and he immediately sent back an acceptance of the proposed arrangements. It was late, and he'd be tired himself, but it was about the most reasonable period she could have come up with in view of their shift pattern.
"Tucker to Reed." The comm called in. "I'd rather get down and back again as soon as we can. I thought you'd be the same."
"Definitely, Sir." A spasm of regret for the times when his response would have been rather less formal. "I'll be there in two minutes."
He glanced at the monitor again. Now he had something else to worry about.
Bloody wonderful.
"Ensign?"
He stepped into the gym and looked around, surprised that nobody appeared to be here. Em was as strict about punctuality as he was himself.
"Boss." She was here, just in one of the smaller cubicles off to one side. She didn't come out to meet him, which added to his faint puzzlement. After a momentary hesitation, he walked over to the door.
She was just completing a series of warm-up exercises. According to his calculations, she wouldn't have had time to go to breakfast yet, but she looked alert and well rested. Considerably better than he did himself, in fact.
"You sent me a message that you needed to speak to me about something important."
"Sí, Patrón." She walked towards him and to his bewilderment pressed the door control, closing it behind him. "We need to talk about something very important indeed."
"I'm all ears. Though I don't exactly see..."
"I challenge you to a practice match. A sparring session. And every time I get you to the floor you have to answer me a question. Honestly and completely. Is it a bargain?"
If he'd been a cat he'd have laid his ears back. He did not like the way this was shaping up at all.
"This hardly seems a professional approach," he said sharply.
"Possibly not. Perhaps what we need to find out is how much you trust me." She stopped, facing him. Her long black hair was knotted up at the back of her head, and her arms were crossed over her chest, possibly in a deliberate imitation of the way he himself stood so often. She was a very attractive woman, even in baggy training clothes; her face had the fine bone structure that would keep its beauty even into old age. The thought crossed his mind that she was, for some unknown reason, trying to defuse his anger; it must have been evident to his staff that he wasn't – for want of a more accurate term – his usual cheerful self. It was unlikely, however. He could imagine that if she thought he was being unfair to his department she'd come in and have the matter out with him upfront, but not like this.
So. How much did he trust her?
Quite a lot, when he came to consider. She'd been one of the first choices when he had the chance of appointing his seconds when he came on board. Ever since then she'd amply justified his faith in her. She was cool in a crisis, decisive when it mattered, and a crack shot. She could strip and rebuild a phase pistol possibly quicker than he could. Her reports were accurate, detailed and invariably delivered on time. Her shift ran like clockwork.
Nevertheless, as things stood it was a bit of an uneven bargain.
"So what do I get every time I get you to the floor?"
Her eyes danced. "I will make you a cup of tea and tell everyone in the Mess Hall that the English football team is better than Spain's. It will be hard to lie, but ¡demonios, it will be in a worthy cause!"
He had to laugh. Although he took little interest in sports, they'd occasionally ribbed each other on the lamentable disparity between their national soccer teams' abilities. On his part it was more a question of patriotism than enthusiasm for the sport itself, but it was one of the threads of which their relationship was woven. There was no doubt that having to perjure herself in front of an audience would be a penance she would long remember.
"Give me a minute."
She nodded and walked off to get a drink while he stripped off his uniform and boots and changed into the tracksuit bottoms and tank top he'd brought with him. He'd intended to use the gym facilities after dealing with whatever issue Em wanted to bring to his attention, and now began loosening up himself. He was still puzzled and a little angry, but he wasn't the man to refuse a challenge. Before he'd have to answer any questions she'd have to get him down on the floor, and he was not an easy opponent to get the better of.
The sparring mats were laid out ready. It only took him a few minutes to go through the necessary cardio and stretching exercises and get the blood pumping. He'd had a long day, but the prospect of a lively bout was enough to get the adrenaline flowing; although the two of them had not pitted themselves against each other for a very long time, he had a healthy respect for her ability. She'd studied almost as many martial arts as he had, and used moves from any one of them quite without pattern or warning. He knew that she'd had coaching from T'Pol in some of the more complex Vulcan techniques.
The two of them squared up and dropped into a crouch. For some moments they circled each other, feinting once or twice. There was no sound in the gym room but their breathing, and the soft footfalls on the matting.
He opened accounts first, aiming a high kick at her shoulder. She dodged, throwing herself under it and striking out at his ribs with the back of her fist. It contacted only air, and she rolled and came upright again before he could follow up. He danced backwards out of range, watching her narrowly.
For some five minutes they traded passes and strikes, neither making any significant contact. At one point he almost got her in a lock but she wriggled out of it, forcing him to some pretty lively footwork himself to avoid a counter-move. She should, by rights, have moved back when the ploy failed, but she didn't. Risking a hard blow, she moved in on him again and got a knee around his thigh. A push just as the hook overbalanced him, and he found himself on the mat with her on top of him.
"Bueno." She sat on his chest, not helping his attempts to retrieve some of the air the crash had forced out of his lungs. "You owe me an answer."
He gasped a bit, more to buy himself some time than because he was actually seriously short of breath. He was perfectly able to free himself if he'd needed to, and both of them knew it. The fact that he remained there was a concession of sorts.
"An answer to what?" he growled at last.
She folded her arms and tilted her head to one side. Apparently his attempt to glare her into discretion was unsuccessful. "Why are you angry with Hoshi?"
His hands slammed flat on to the matting. He had to hit something, and if he hit her when he was in this temper he would damage her. "That's none of your bloody business!"
"And that is not the answer to the question," she said calmly. "Hicimos un trato, Patrón. Here is the floor; there are you on it. You owe me an answer."
He made several attempts to speak, and stopped each one. He had the best of reasons to know that she was no stranger to bad language (she had, indeed, widened his vocabulary with a great many Spanish expressions from time to time), but trying to explain the situation without using Captain Archer, Hoshi and any one of several Anglo-Saxon derivatives in the same sentence was, at that moment, beyond him. And even if he was, at that particular moment, flat on his back under his junior officer and they were both off duty, he still owed something to the conduct expected of a Starfleet officer.
Finally, seeing that she was prepared to perch on his chest indefinitely if she had to, he mastered his anger enough to put a terse explanation together. Even now he couldn't go into the details. Somehow he got out the word 'intimate' and left her to draw her own conclusions. That adjective alone was almost enough to choke him with rage.
Instead of seeming outraged, or even shocked, Em simply nodded. "Así que fueras celoso – como el infierno." Seeing him scowl as he struggled with the translation, she added, 'Jealous as hell.'
Without waiting for his answer, or even seeming to expect one, she hopped up again. "Vale. Entonces, sigamos adelante."
He was more than ready to 'get on with it'. And this time he was going to make sure she didn't get a chance to ask any more questions. It wasn't that he didn't trust her not to talk – he most emphatically did trust her; but his wounds were too new and far too raw to have anyone poking around in them, especially uninvited.
Besides, he thought to himself with a grim smile, the England soccer team could do with all the support they could get.
Ten minutes later he was two cups of tea to the good and Em's status as a staunch supporter of the Spanish national side promised to be seriously brought into question. They were both somewhat blown by this time; it had been a hard-fought bout, and with no-one to referee they'd had to call a halt for themselves and sit opposite each other on the mat, getting their breath back. It was unusual for a contest to go on this long, but they hadn't set a duration and so far neither of them had called time. Malcolm, for one, felt that he could go on for a while longer. If nothing else, the violent exercise would go some way – if not a lot – towards helping him sleep.
As soon as Em caught his eye and nodded, he began getting to his feet. At which point she launched herself at him, and once more he found himself on his back with her on top of him.
Genuinely angry, he opened his mouth to protest, but she laid a hand lightly across it.
"No, it was not fair," she said quietly. "It was not fair at all. But then you are in no position to complain."
He closed his mouth. She released it and tidied a lock of dark hair that had flopped across his forehead. The gesture reminded him for no reason at all of Maddie.
"You are a good man," Em said gently. "If Hoshi had been attacked – if she had been raped – you would not have blamed her as you are doing now. You would have helped her."
"It wasn't a rape." His throat closed up. The memories scorched him. She could have said 'No.' But she hadn't. Whatever else it had been, it hadn't been rape.
"No." She nodded assent. "It probably was not. But there again, I have seen the recordings of the Loque'eque they imprisoned in the decontamination chamber. He was not exactly well-behaved either."
Malcolm flushed angrily. "He was afraid."
"Indeed. Y con razón. Yet you find compassion for the behaviour of the person who wore your body, but for a man and a woman dear to you, who had as little control over their bodies as you did over yours, you can find none."
He had not thought of it in that light before. He winced.
She said nothing for a few moments, watching him absorb that concept. Then she lifted herself off him and sat beside him, cross-legged and watching him seriously. "If you – usted, usted mismo – had been in the decontamination chamber, you would have calmed that man. You would have explained to him that he had no need to fear. His behaviour would have been very different. But you were not."
He stared up at the ceiling. It was easier to talk to that than to the grave beautiful face studying him with such concern. But even talking to the ceiling, it was almost impossible to articulate his darkest fear – one that couldn't be talked away.
"If I couldn't remember – I – perhaps I could – but what if she remembers and I'm –" He clenched his fists until the nails dug into his palms. She could have said 'No.' The unjust accusation still ran through his mind, an anguished howl. Then he wouldn't be haunted by the fear that his performance wouldn't live up to the standards set by the Alpha Male.
Situation normal. Malcolm the Also-Ran. Malcolm the Failure.
"Malcolm." Em touched his shoulder gently. "You have slept with other women before Hoshi, yes?"
He spoke to the ceiling, feeling the blush stain his cheeks. "Yes. Of course."
"And some of them, perhaps, more bien proporcionado than she?"
He didn't understand the phrase, but her hands described the shape in the air. He nodded reluctantly. It had seemed important at the time, until he discovered Hoshi's slender perfection.
"Bien. And so when you are making love to Hoshi, you think of these other women and wish she was so, and so, other than as she is."
"Of course I –" He made to sit up angrily, and then saw too late the trap that had closed on him. Of course he didn't, and she knew that perfectly well. "Bloody hell."
"For the good of the ship, as well as for yourself and Hoshi, this must be mended." She folded her arms again. "I will not have two good friends who love one another parted for no reason."
"Yes, Commander," he said wryly. The depth of her insight into the situation was as worrying as it was surprising, but then he'd already known that she was very observant – one of the qualities that made a good tactical officer. He wasn't sure that he'd yet got around to applying the word 'love' to what he felt for Hoshi, but the depth of the pain he'd been in since the breach between them had taught him how deeply he cared for her. And he'd been wary of trying to analyse what she felt for him; the wonderful suggestion that she actually might be in love with him was so surprising he'd have to consider it with care.
"Excelente. So now you will go to Hoshi and the two of you will kiss and make up, and you will forgive the capitán for something he could not help."
She helped him to sit up, but he draped his arms across his knees and bit his lip. "After the way I've behaved, she'll probably tell me to sling my hook as soon as she claps eyes on me."
"Quizás. But when all is said and done, she loves you. And I am sure that the Malcolm Reed who loves her will be brave and clever enough to find some tactics to get through her defences." She clapped a hand on his shoulders. "¿Qué estás esperando?"
The communicator panel on the wall chose that precise moment to broadcast an urgent ship-wide message: "Tucker to Security!"
He closed his eyes for an instant and then scrambled to his feet. Em grabbed his discarded uniform and thrust it at him while he stripped off his leisure clothes; off duty or not, he would never ignore such a summons. While he hurriedly got changed she contacted the Commander and discovered his whereabouts: he was in Sub-Commander T'Pol's quarters, at a guess attending for one of his neuropressure sessions – or whatever these sessions actually involved. Rumours, of course, abounded.
"Get the pistol from my quarters, it'll be quicker than going to yours or the Armoury. And if you need me, call for me. Como siempre."
"Lo sé. Gracias." His accent was still terrible. He knew it from the amused gleam in response. Maybe he could get Hoshi to give him lessons.
Despite the urgency of the call, however, he snatched a second to offer his hand, palm forward and fingers spread. Hers met it and clasped it briefly. Trip and Hoshi weren't his only friends on board. He'd let himself forget that, and it wouldn't happen again.
Then the needs of the ship took over, and he started running.
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