Another day.
Malcolm had been standing at the window since before dawn. This was what he usually did; he was lucky to have a window, lucky indeed to be in a room that – for a brig – was relatively comfortable. It was not luxurious, but it wasn't significantly less Spartan than his quarters aboard Enterprise. And that hadn't had a viewing port.
He still didn't know why he was here; the men who'd arrested him had simply said he was 'wanted in connection with a crime'. Not that it mattered, particularly. He'd learned a long time ago to accept things as they came. Whenever the question why surged up again he simply said because.
Because there was a reason. And sooner or later he would find out what it was, and when he did, he would be able to act. And in the meantime, he bided his time and conserved his strength.
He had always been what Trip referred to as 'the ship's personal worry-wart', whatever one of those was when it was at home. So here, in a situation where worrying could achieve absolutely nothing, he steadfastly refused to surrender to the compulsion to do it again. Worry produced stress, and stress wore away the body's reserves. When the time came to act, he would need everything – everything – his body could give him. Coldly and deliberately he husbanded his mental and emotional reserves, spending hours every day cross-legged on the bed, meditating as he'd learned to do under T'Pol's patient tutelage. If he thought about it at all he envisaged himself as a caged wolf, waiting and watching for the first scrap of a chance to unleash its whole arsenal of savagery. Quiet, patience and obedience weren't submission. They were tactics.
One of the most persistent and troubling whys was why hasn't the captain come? Because surely, by now, Captain Archer would know his officer was awaiting trial. Somehow the captain would find a way to visit. Malcolm had had absolute faith in that from the start.
He still did. But the why on that score was becoming louder and more persistent. And the because was beginning to acquire the first hint of desperation.
Everything else, he could accept. The not knowing why he was here – even that wasn't the worst of it. There would be a reason, and he knew that the law had a habit of dragging its feet. But Jonathan Archer was not known for foot-dragging. For the first twenty-four hours, every footfall outside his cell had him tensing in anticipation.
Archer had not come.
He would come. Sooner or later the door would open and he would be there, with – with something. Malcolm didn't allow himself to speculate on exactly what; an older and bitterly cynical self sneered at him for expecting help from any quarter. But the episode when he'd been impaled to Enterprise's hull by a Romulan mine had taught him that Jonathan Archer never gave up on one of his crew. Even if the captain didn't materialize like an angel with a flaming sword to lead him forth from durance vile (he had a feeling he was getting his biblical metaphors mixed up, but the visual was attractive), there would be something. Explanation. Hope. Wrath. Support.
Something.
But so far ... nothing. Not a single visitor. If he hadn't already been accustomed to solitude, and fortified by meditation, he would have been starting to feel oppressed by his isolation. It wasn't as if he was the social centre of the universe at the best of times, but now and again – mostly when his meals were delivered and he ate them in solitary splendour – he was beginning to feel unexpectedly lonely.
True, he was allowed books (one paperback at a time, and with the outer cover removed) and let out of his cell for an hour a day to exercise. But that took place alone in a secure hall, where there were no items of gymnasium equipment (too apt to be converted into weapons or missiles) and all he could do was expend energy in furious bouts of running, laps and straight sprints, slamming his hand against one wall before turning to pelt back to the other end, and now and again varying his routine by leaping into the air as if trying to jump up and clutch an invisible rope dangling there.
It was going to be a beautiful day. The sea was visible in the distance, gloriously blue; even the bridge was just about discernible, a suggestion of thin, shining white lines against the early morning sky. Overhead a seagull cried, tilting brilliantly-sunlit wings against the cloudless blue as it veered away and flew off. He only knew it had called out because he saw the yellow beak open and close; the window was far too thick to let in the sound.
How he envied its freedom...
He lowered his head slightly, closing his eyes. The reinforced glass was cool against his forehead.
Why?
Because.
His shoulders had tensed. Deliberately he forced them to relax. Evened out his breathing. Felt his slightly accelerated pulse slow down again.
Not submission. Tactics.
It was important that incarceration shouldn't affect his physical fitness. He could hardly ask for a running machine to be installed, and anything that constituted a weight could also constitute a weapon, but within the constraints of his cell he'd set himself a punishing daily routine of such exercises as were available to him.
He hadn't been allowed to retain his chronometer, or any other personal belongings, but high up on the other side of the corridor outside there was a clock. A thin glass panel, far too narrow to squeeze through even if he could have smashed the glass in it, allowed him to see it if he cared to glance that way.
'Fasted' exercise put more demands on the body. He moved to the area of his cell that he'd designated as his exercise area, went through the necessary cardio warm-up routine and then dropped immediately into the first exercise of the day: V-sits – supervising the fitness sessions on Enterprise, he'd stare round like a hawk for anyone slacking. "Get those toes to fingers!" If he pushed himself hard enough he'd get through all three sets before they brought breakfast.
... Forty-nine... fifty! He swallowed a mouthful of water from the cardboard cup he'd set ready, and then slammed into the next. Prisoner squats; the name appealed sourly to his sense of humour. Hands on head, arse low, bounce, don't stand up. Diamond push-ups next (elbows in, chest to hands, PUSH!), then plyo-lunges (knees to floor, power UP!), then burpees and back to handstand push-ups and squats. Fifty of each, three times over. Measuring himself against the silently changing figures on the clock display, pinning himself down to the sheer savagery of the struggle against lactic acid and despair. Soon serotonin was coursing through his brain; this was the one time where pushing himself enabled him to feel anything like his normal self. Routine. Three sets. Get through it. Push. No matter how hard it was to power through on an empty stomach, it made him feel normal. Feel strong. Feel like an officer.
When he was listening to his thundering heart pushing the blood to his muscles he couldn't hear the silence. Didn't realise that he couldn't hear the seagull cry.
Why?
Because.
...Forty-nine... fifty!