Chapter Twenty-Eight

Encouragement

Commodore Charles Tucker III

There's something really beautiful about a hospital ship, all gleaming white and quiet and clean. If you don't think too hard about who you'll find in the wards and how they got there, it can even be soothing. Ordinarily the crew quarters, their corridors on the Livingston done in shades of a color I think is called mauve, where the staff retires to rest between shifts, are even more peaceful than the medical sections of the ship; however, as I am approaching the CMOs quarters with a welcome gift under my arm and a guilty conscience, every step only serves to heighten my anxiety. The Livingston has been docked here for more than a week already, and though I met Jeremy Lucas at the airlock when they arrived and have seen him every day at the morning meeting, I haven't had – or more accurately haven't made – time to visit him in his quarters yet.

As a matter of fact, I've been dodging him.

Something about Jeremy reminds me of my dad. He's not that much older than me, maybe ten years or so, but he has this sort of wisdom about him. Add to that the almost paternal compassion he has for everyone around him, and well, it's hard not to look up to the guy. The last thing I want to do is disappoint him.

And that compassion of his is complicating things for me now, too. When a guy can find a way to understand and forgive almost anything, it's hard to justify lying to him or keeping secrets from him. I discovered that the first time he wanted to give T'Pol a physical.

I'd just taken over command of the station about the time Jeremy was transferred in, and some of the former commander's old guard had been giving me a rough time; so T'Pol had seen a few rougher-than-usual nights in quick succession, and there were marks, bruises, mostly, and rug burn on her shoulder blades, and probably some tearing and irritation because I hadn't exactly been generous with the lube. I realized instantly that Jeremy wouldn't approve, so I tried to get him to postpone the checkup. If I could hold him off for a week or so and control my temper during that time, she'd heal up and he'd be none the wiser.

Naturally, the more I resisted, the more he insisted, until we were shouting at each other.

"I am your CMO, now, Commander!" he reminded me. "When it comes to the well-being of station personnel, you don't get to say no."

"She's a slave!" I insisted. "That makes her property, not personnel."

"She is a person residing on this station," he growled. "That makes her medical care my responsibility, and she is overdue for a physical. At the very least, I need to make sure she isn't carrying any transmissible diseases that she could pass on to you. Now, you can send her to my office or I can see her in your quarters, but she's getting a checkup. Today."

It was clear enough that his next argument would be that it was necessary for my health, and I knew I was beat.

"Fine!" I snarled. "You have a medical override code. Use it. Let yourself into my quarters an' do it at your leisure. I have more important things to attend to."

I stormed off, so mad I didn't know what I was going to do next. Eventually, I ended up in Anna's quarters (I hadn't promoted her to Chief of Construction yet, so she didn't have an office) sipping coffee laced with good – not top-shelf, she wouldn't waste top-shelf spirits on coffee – Irish whiskey.

"You did nothing illegal," she told me. "The worst he can do to you is tut and fuss and patch her up. She's a slave. She has no more rights than one of those goofy superhero paperweights you keep on your desk. If you want to throw one of them against a bulkhead in a fit of anger, nobody's going to stop you."

My paperweights are antiques, most of them gifts from people who care about me. I'd never risk damaging them. I must have dipped my head even lower in shame then, because Anna changed tack.

"You admire him, don't you?"

I rolled my eyes to look up at her. "Don't you?"

She shrugged and smiled slightly. "He seems like a really decent guy," she said. "Makes it kind of hard not to." Then she sat on the bunk beside me, close enough our shoulders were touching, and leaned in. "I think you're worried about what he thinks of you, ask him for advice."

"Advice? On what?"

"Doesn't matter. Controlling your temper, managing the assholes who seem to be going out of their way to make your job more difficult." My head whipped around so I could look at her on that one. I hadn't said one word about the shit the department heads had been giving me. Anna smirked and added, "Hiding your anxiety about disappointing someone you look up to."

I smiled back at her then. Even in the early days, she knew me well.

And I knew her.

"You haven't told me what you think, yet, about me havin' a Vulcan sex slave," I observed. "It's not like you to keep your opinions to yourself."

"Well, the problem is, I'm of two minds on the matter, Boss," she said. "As a woman who worked side by side with T'Pol on Enterpriseday in and day out, I have one opinion. As a Human who probably would have died had her little rebellion succeeded, I have a completely different position. Then again, she was a gift from the Empress, so you couldn't exactly have turned her down if you had wanted to. And she's a slave, after all, so by law, you can do whatever you want with her. And I realize that's more than two opinions on the subject. Since I haven't figured out a way to reconcile those conflicting points of view yet, I just keep my mouth shut. It's not that I don't know what to think, it's that I have too many thoughts about it.

"But regarding our CMO, I can say with some confidence that it doesn't matter what you ask him about, he'll just be flattered that you ask."

"Doctor Lucas to Commander Tucker," the comm. sounded, and Anna gave me a smirk. "May I see you in your quarters please?"

I rolled my eyes, Anna threw me a wink, and I headed out.

Damn it, I'm the CO of this station! I told myself as I trudged through the corridor. She's my property and they're my quarters. He can't intimidate me! As much as I tried to convince myself that I was in charge and I was in the right, I still felt like an errant schoolboy being called into the principal's office.

When I got there, I looked around my quarters. "Where is she?" I demanded angrily. "I said you could come here and examine her, not take her away."

"I sent her to Sickbay with one of my orderlies. The contusions on her wrists and thighs are healing well, but the abrasions on her back seem to be aggravated. I thought some dermal regeneration therapy was in order to reduce the risk of infection. I also prescribed injections for a number of micronutrient deficiencies."

"She gets three squares a day, just like I do!" I growled. There had been no judgment in his tone, but I felt defensive anyway. It was bad enough he'd seen how I'd knocked her around. I enjoyed rough sex, and that didn't embarrass me, but there'd been a few times in the last week or so that it had been more of a beating than an energetic fuck. I wasn't having him think I starved her, too. She only went hungry until I was sure she understood her new place in the world, and even then, she got a handful of fresh dog kibble every other day until she ate it. A couple of weeks after that, I let her out of the cage and started feeding her proper food again.

"Oh, her calorie intake is perfectly adequate," he said mildly, gesturing me toward my armchair. Only then did I realize I'd been waiting for permission to sit, and in my own damned quarters, no less. I practically threw myself into the seat and scowled at him. "But Vulcans require a higher percentage of starch in the diet to help them metabolize the vitamins and minerals they consume.

"Now, that can be corrected in one of two ways. You can have Chef swap more whole grains and root vegetables for the leafy greens and white starches in her meals, or I can give her monthly injections."

"I suppose improvin' her diet would be the best way to handle it," I said grudgingly.

"Oh, absolutely," he approved enthusiastically as he settled into my desk chair and turned to face me and I realized I had been maneuvered into a position where I was literally forced to look up to him. "Any time a medical condition can be handled with diet or behavior modification that is always the best choice. No medical treatment is entirely without side effects.

"Now, regarding those bruises and abrasions…"

"She's my property, Doctor," I got defensive all over again. "If I want to shove her out an airlock to see how long she can hold her breath, I'm within my rights."

His face became wooden, and as I got to know him better, I realized that was a sign that he was fighting with everything he had to contain his anger.

"I don't dispute that, Commander," he sounded amiable enough despite the rigid expression. "But I don't think you'd ever want to do that.

"I spoke with T'Pol about the history the two of you share," he said. "She thinks she's lucky to be alive."

"She is."

He nodded. "Probably," he agreed. "I think you have enough of a temper to kill someone in the heat of anger, especially if she put you, your ship, or people you cared about at risk; but she hasn't been in a position to do that for a long, long time, and you don't strike me as the kind of fellow who holds on to a grudge that long."

"Maybe you don't know me that well."

"Or maybe something else is bothering you, and you don't know what to do about it, so you come home and kick the dog."

I'm pretty sure I squirmed in my seat when he tapped T'Pol's cage with the toe of his shoe.

"Taking command of a new post is a huge stressor for anybody, and you're a young man to be given a responsibility as big as Jupiter Station. After what you did with the Defiant specs, people are going to expect great things from you. As far as I'm concerned, Commander, we are now talking about your mental health. Anything you say to me is covered under doctor-patient confidentiality."

"So, it's just between you, me, and the security recordings, huh?" he knew as well as I did that nothing was ever truly private in the Imperial Fleet.

"As a physician, I have the authority to block such transmissions if I feel the lack of privacy compromises my patient's care," he said. "I'm obliged to record our conversation and to disclose immediately any treasonous or seditious activity or intentions you admit, and Imperial Security can subpoena my records in connection with any investigation in which you are a witness or a subject. Short of those two exceptions, I can keep what we say here and now private.

"What do you say?"

It may have been stupid at the time, but I nodded. I hardly knew the man, but I trusted him. He pressed a button on his PADD, there was a shrill whistle, and then the word SECURE glowed green on the display.

Over the next half hour or so, I unloaded all my worries and anxieties on him. My fear of failure, my frustration with the department heads who showed me all the required military courtesies but smirked in my face as they agreed to do what I asked even when we both knew they wouldn't and then would come back to me with some lame excuse for why they didn't, my fear of someone coming up behind me in the dark and creating a new opening for CO of Jupiter Station, my worries for my family now that I was a celebrity (at the time the underground was kidnapping for ransom the close relatives of Imperial big shots), even my shame and anxiety about how he would judge me for taking all my other frustrations out on T'Pol.

He listened intently, never judging, only interrupting occasionally with a specific question or encouragement to continue. Eventually, I ran out of things to say.

"Thanks, Doc. You know, gettin' all of that off my chest really does make me feel better."

"Oh, Commander, we're not finished yet," he told me.

"But, I don't have anything more to say," I insisted, leaning forward to get up out of my seat.

"You've said plenty for me to make a diagnosis," he said. "Now, I need you to answer a few questions before I give you my prescription."

"Oh, no! I didn't agree to have my head shrunk."

He gave me a long-suffering look and said patiently, "It's not going to be like that at all, Trip, I promise. No deep, probing questions about your feelings, nothing about your mother, and I don't care what else Herr Freud thinks a cigar might be, if you give me one, I'm going to light it up and smoke it. I just need a few facts so I can advise you properly."

Throwing my hands in the air, I flopped back in the chair and said, "All right, ask away!"

"The department heads really piss you off when they fail to follow orders, don't they?"

"I thought you said you wouldn't ask about my feelin's!"

"I said no deep, probing questions," he corrected me. "This only requires a yes or no answer. They piss you off, don't they?"

"Yes."

"And is it fair to say you feel disrespected by them?"

"Yes."

"And is their insubordination the main reason you're worried about failing in this new job?"

"I suppose so."

"Do you think you deserve their respect?"

"What?" That felt like a probing question.

"All I want is a yes or no answer, Trip. You don't have to defend, justify, or even examine it, just gut reaction, when you weigh your experience, skills, and accomplishments against a bunch of second bananas who have spent decades in the security of Jupiter Station, some of whom have never left the solar system, let alone seen combat, do you think you deserve their respect?"

"Hell, yes."

"Good, that's the right place to start. Now you need to convince them, and the only way to do that is to get to know them and let them get to know you. How are your self-defense skills?"

"Huh?"

"Hand-to-hand combat. Can you handle yourself?"

"Doc, I've spent twelve years servin' on active duty battle ships, more than half that time on Enterprise. Out there, when the enemy isn't out to get you, there's a good chance at least one of your crewmates is. The fact that I'm still breathin' should be proof enough that I can do more than just handle myself."

"Perfect. Then I recommend you quit sparring with these jerks in the conference room and start doing it in the gym."

"Wait a minute! You're a doctor, an' you're suggestin' I beat them up? I might be young for the job, but I'm not seventeen anymore!"

"You don't have to beat them up, just convince them that you can," he said. "Then give them two weeks to fall in line or request a transfer. If they toe the mark, fine. If they request a transfer, send them where they want to go. If they fail to do either, arrange an involuntary transfer to the front or bury them in a toxic waste disposal facility, and fill their position with whomever you want."

"Bury them?" I echoed. "Literally or figuratively?"

He shrugged. "That's up to you."

I shook my head and scoffed in surprise. "That's nice talk comin' from a doctor."

"Son, I don't approve of hurting anybody for any reason, but I'm a smart man. I know how the world works. I also know, probably better than you do, how, or at least why, T'Pol got those marks on her back and wrists and thighs. The way things are going around here, someone is going to get hurt. I'd rather it be them than you or her."

"But those guys have been runnin' this place for years," I argued.

"And you have ideas for how to make it run better?"

"Yeah."

"Are you confident your ideas will work?"

"Yeah, if they'd do what I ask."

"Then they don't really know what they're doing, and you don't have to ask anybody to do anything around here. You're the boss. You tell them, and if they don't do it, you get rid of them."

"But this is Jupiter Station! The amount of stuff that goes on here…"

"You were chief engineer on a starship for half your career, weren't you?"

"More or less, why?"

"And within your engineering staff, you had several departments, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"What were they?"

"Well, we had the crew that manned the main reactor an' the sub-light engines, another that co-ordinated with tactical to make sure the weapons had sufficient power without compromisin' life support an' structural integrity, a fabrication lab, a repair workshop, some people assigned to ship repair an' maintenance, an' a sanitation team."

"So, you were actually juggling more on a starship than you are now," he observed.

"Well, I wouldn't say that, exactly," I argued weakly.

"No, I wouldn't either," he admitted, "but my point is, you already know how to do this job. You can manage people and delegate responsibilities. You're just letting the scale of it intimidate you, and, feeling intimidated, you feel like you need to hang on to the guys with experience, even if they're not very good.

"I guarantee you, son, get rid of the dead weight at the top, and everyone else around here will breathe easier because you do."

Within a week, I had written a program that would let him edit and splice conversations on that special psychiatric pad of his, even correcting the time code to make the editing undetectable, so that he could further protect any of his patients he thought might have revealed something that would get them in hot water if Imperial Security or the BII forced him to turn over his recordings. It was another week or two before I decided I trusted him enough to give it to him – conspiring to get around any of the Imperial security measures is a serious offense, and as likeable as he was from the start, I needed to find out just how strictly he followed regulations before I let him see how willing I was to overlook or outright break some of them.

I took Jeremy's advice about the department heads, of course, and he was right. Morris Fincke was the only one of the four chiefs who survived the cull, but he'd only been here a few months before I took over, so he wasn't as resistant to change as the others. The other three all received involuntary transfers to the front because they didn't believe me when I told them they could pick their next assignment if they did it in two weeks or less. In the months that followed, I transferred more than ten percent, nearly five hundred people, of the subordinate staff who couldn't get with the program. Those who just couldn't seem to understand and follow orders to my satisfaction got forty-eight hours to choose a new post from a list of openings. Those who treated their colleagues badly (including taking sexual liberties with unwilling partners, when it came to my attention), created an unsafe work environment through laziness or a blatant disregard for safety protocols, or consistently failed to complete their jobs with no good reason, were snatched out of their places by MACOs and packed off to the shittiest holes I could find for them as soon as I had a reasonably qualified replacement lined up.

Of course, after a house-cleaning like that, it took about six months for people to quit pissing themselves (in one case, literally) every time I walked into a room. At least once a week, one of the women, or young men, or older men who knew they didn't have the stamina to meet the demands of battleship service anymore would break down in tears if I spent too long talking to them on one of my tours of the station. Jeremy even asked me to attend face-to-face counselling with one little ensign who was so afraid of me she was having nightmares. Out of necessity, I started carrying extra handkerchiefs and became very good at comforting people.

"Are you doin' your best?" I'd hand them a handkerchief.

A sniffle and a whimper, "Yes, sir."

"An' your last performance review reflects that your supervisor knows that?"

Another whimper, "Yes, sir."

"Do you have any plans to attack anybody just to see them hurt in the foreseeable future?"

Another sniffle and a frown and a very puzzled, "No, sir."

"An' are you plannin' to start randomly fallin' asleep on the job or ditchin' your safety gear?"

An 'is this for real' look, and another puzzled, "No, sir."

"Then you're fine. I don't expect anybody to be perfect; I'm sure as hell not. Nobody who gives me their best is goin' anywhere against their will, so…" I offer an encouraging smile. "… get a grip an' get back to work, ok?"

A tentative smile.

I grin back.

A bigger smile. "Yes, sir!"

So here I am today, about to have breakfast with the man to whom I owe almost everything, the man who could understand and forgive just about anything, and already I have made up my mind to lie to his face and keep secrets from him.

I press the button that activates the chime telling him he has a visitor.

I could tell myself that I'm doing it to protect him. The less he knows about what's going on, the safer he is from interrogation, but that lie's a bigger whopper than any of the ones I'm planning to tell him. He doesn't have to know anything about anything for the MACOs or the BII to decide they need to interview him, and it wouldn't necessarily have to be about anything I'm doing, either. With all the confidential conversations he's blocked from Imperial Security over the years, and I'm sure he's the kind of man who used that privilege fairly liberally, he's probably more likely than anyone I've ever met to be subjected to an impromptu interrogation. Nothing in the Empire is ever completely over and behind you until your dead, either, so he could get dragged in as a material witness to something that happened while he was in medical school and I was still … Well, not in diapers, he's only about ten years older than me. I'd have been riding the short bus up to the high school for advanced math classes. Knowing about my mess with General Chaos will only put him at greater risk if the wrong someone finds out about it. He's far, far more likely to be questioned about things he has seen or done in his past than anything I'm up to now.

I could say I'm deceiving him to protect myself and all the other people I've dragged into this harebrained scheme. The less he knows, the less chance that he'll let something slip to the wrong person and get us all in trouble, but that's as big a load of bullshit as the other lie. The daft professorial façade he wears covers a keen mind and a quick wit and the kind of loyalty that would see him sooner cut out his own tongue than divulge anything said to him in confidence, professional or otherwise. Nobody keeps a secret like Jeremy Lucas. You tell him something private, and it's like he forgets it immediately, until you need to talk it over with him again.

I press the button again, maybe he was in the shower? I hear him holler from the other side. It sounds like he's saying, 'Just a minute,' so I wait.

The fact is, I just don't want to disappoint him.

I've already disappointed Liz by making her stick that control device in Malcolm's chest. Malcolm might just be disappointed to have survived, though I think he's still making up his mind about that. Amanda Cole is probably disappointed that Liz and all her 'complications' are still a part of this operation. Miguel is disappointed that the baby didn't make it, though he hides it well; and the only way he'll ever get over what I did with his miniature pacemaker is if he finds out why the baby didn't make it and I'm not sure I'd be man enough to stick around to see that. Mama and Daddy were both disappointed by how I handled Liz's tantrum, each of them for different reasons. Hess and Rostov are disappointed that I took their trust for granted. Hell, even T'Pol's probably disappointed that I didn't let Malcolm die along with everybody else in the explosion, and while I don't think she wants to see Liz dead, I'm sure she'd be a lot happier if the two of us weren't working so closely anymore.

And we're all going to be real disappointed if I can't turn Malcolm and have to … neutralize him, not to mention how disappointed – and dead – we're going to be if, worse than failing, it all goes wrong.

I'm just tired of disappointing people, so I'm going to do my best to avoid disappointing Jeremy. If that means lying to him and keeping things from him, that's what I'll do.

"Trip, my boy!" he bellows cheerfully as the door slides open and he greets me, still in his pajamas and a silk robe. He makes no apology for his appearance and I expect none. I suggested this breakfast meeting, and he agreed so long as I didn't mind coming to his quarters. The time on the Sherman's March was nearly eight hours behind station time and the Livingston was almost four hours behind us. Two weeks is hardly long enough to adjust after almost two years serving in what amounts to a different time zone, so six o'clock in the morning probably feels like two a.m. to him.

And forget the salute, when I take his offered hand to shake, he uses it to pull me into a bear hug strong enough to pop my back, which actually feels kind of good as it releases some of the tension I've been carrying. A beefy little man with a giant personality, Jeremy doesn't do anything halfway. There is nothing lukewarm about him. You're either engulfed in the warmth of his friendship and sunny disposition or completely frozen out. It makes me glad to be his friend.

"It's so good to see you! Come in! Come in!"

I follow him into his quarters, and open my gift box to show him what I have brought. Four perfect orbs, golden in color with just a blush of red, like a Florida sunset.

"From the Tucker family farm?" he asks, his eyes lighting up in delight. He could be a child getting a box full of chocolates.

"The sweetest ruby red grapefruit you're ever gonna find, picked fresh this mornin', an' still warm from the sun," I tell him. "We get whatever the quartermaster sends us for the galley, of course, but when things are in season, my daddy ships me a crate full of whatever's best once a week. Growin' up in a citrus orchard, I've just been spoiled for anything that gets picked early, ripened in storage an' shipped weeks later."

He gestures me into a chair as he rummages in a drawer for a knife and a couple of spoons.

"I trust you'll join me," he says, and I nod, taking the knife when he hands it over. As I slice one of the grapefruits in half, he pours us each some coffee. Eggs, sausage, and toast have been held at the moment of perfection in a stasis unit made to look like a silver tray with a domed cover.

"I'm so pleased to see you and so happy we finally get a chance to talk," Jeremy tells me as he scoops out a section of his grapefruit. "I have to admit I was little disappointed that you couldn't visit sooner."

That's it, I fucking surrender. I've heard that you can't please all of the people all of the time, but it looks like I can't please anybody altogether.

What the hell. Into each life, a little rain must fall, and lately, it seems it's my fate to be the cloud.

I slouch back in my chair and groan in frustration.

Jeremy gives me questioning a look. "Everything all right?"

I give a sour look back. "No."

He doesn't say a word, just goes on buttering his toast, and I know he won't speak again until he has more information.

"Jeremy, I'm sorry," I tell him. "I wasn't gonna do this to you right away, but, I … I need a professional consultation."

He looks up sharply then. "A professional consultation?"

I nod. "These last couple weeks, since the explosion, it's been rough. We lost a lot of people. I … need to talk." I try to give him a meaningful look that says it's about more than my personal worries and concerns, but he'll figure that out soon enough.

He holds up one finger to stop me, rises, and bustles away from the table. When he returns, he has one of his psychiatric PADDs with the transmission blocker and the recording feature. He says some formal mumbo-jumbo at the beginning, date, time, patient's name, and then he presses the button to block security transmission. There's a shrill electronic whistle, and he gestures me to begin.

Apart from some of the names, Malcolm's location, and how I got him there, I tell Jeremy everything, from the changes in sickbay staffing and practices that started the moment Phlox took over, which I looked the other way on, to the day I kicked Malcolm in the ribs when he was lying helpless on my shuttlebay floor, to the elevator ride, to his horrible screaming after the second time, to my changing relationship with T'Pol, to Kelby building the tank, to the bracelet I made for Liz, to setting up the explosion, the device in Malcolm's chest, my conversations with the Empress, involving my family, my speech to the MACOs, what happened to the baby, lying about it to Miguel, promoting Burnell, my meeting with Malcolm, and everything in between.

I talk for an hour and a half. Jeremy listens intently, saying almost nothing except to occasionally clarify the timeline or the people present at a particular moment, or to encourage me to eat some more of my breakfast. I finally wrap it up by showing him a chip I want to install in his PADD that will let him communicate with Liz in the event of a medical emergency that she can't handle on her own in the bunker.

"Well, you're in it right up to your eyeballs, aren't you, son?" he says with a chuckle.

"Feels more like I'm in over my head," I respond. "Is that all you got for me?"

He laughs outright now. "What do you want from me, Trip?"

"Hell, I don't know. Maybe I need you to tell me I should have let him blow himself up along with the other two an' Phlox," I say. "Maybe I want you to tell me I was a bastard for kickin' him when he was down an' a cruel son of a bitch for tauntin' him when they took him off to be raped. Maybe you should just stick me in a straitjacket an' ship me off to the nuthouse."

"Well, you're not going to get any of that from me. You were in no position to defy orders, so you did what you were told, and since shoddy work is not in your nature, you did it well. As for the little 'extras', well, from the tales you have told me, you have every reason to want a pound of flesh. It's not the noblest sentiment in the world, but it's perfectly human and completely normal under the circumstances. You know me well enough that I think you can guess what my opinion of slavery might be, so I'm sure you know how pleased I am by what you've decided to do for T'Pol. Even if it isn't freedom, it's the best you can do. As for the rest of it, I'm really proud of you."

"Proud?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Why wouldn't I be? The easiest thing in the world for you to do would have been to follow orders, have no doubts, let things continue as they were going, and let the chips fall where they may. Instead, you chose to show mercy, to a man you had good reason to let suffer, and when you got the slightest hint that he could be more than the monster he was, you went beyond mercy and chose hope."

"Until he gave me that warnin' I was only hopin' to have the pleasure of killin' him myself."

"And yet you abandoned that motive for a far nobler one at the first opportunity. You've done the best you can in a situation where there are no good choices. Face it, son, you might be Human, with Human faults and failings, but that doesn't make you a bad guy."

"So, I'm a great guy who killed a lot of innocent people to save a rotten bastard because I need his power on my side," I respond bitterly. "Good for me."

"How long do you think they would have lived after Hayes got what he wanted?" Jeremy demands sharply. "I'm sure he knew when The Project began that Humanity wouldn't stand for being ruled by a Human-alien hybrid. He probably had plans from the start to eliminate anyone who knew about it, and those plans would have included you, Phlox, Liz, possibly Michael and Anna if he knew they were there when Reed arrived, and most certainly Reed himself. I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if, far from collaborating with General Gomez, he was using her just as much as he was using Reed and planned to get rid of her in the end as well."

For a moment, I'm dumbstruck. What the hell kind of world are we living in that a sweet little, almost innocent man like Jeremy could piece that all together?

"Shit, Doc, I never really thought beyond the fact that not even Reed deserved what they were doin' to him an' that at least, I would end it quickly," I tell him. "Here you've played it out all the way to Alpha's endgame in less than five minutes."

"You'd have got there eventually," he says encouragingly.

"'Bout the time they marched me in front of the firin' squad, maybe."

He chuckles. "Maybe a little sooner than that."

I disagree. "No, I know I'm in over my head, now."

"Well, that's ok," he says. "Because you have me, and Mike, Anna, Liz, and whoever else has agreed to help holding you up."

"You do realize that means y'all are underwater an' drownin', don't you?"

The look he gives me then is so filled with compassion, it feels almost like a hug.

"Trip, son…Charles," for some reason, his using my given name makes what he's about to say more important than anything he's ever told me. "I don't think you could cope with knowing just how many people would be not only willing, but happy, to do exactly, literally, that for you."

I'm really flattered by his words, but if I'm honest, I'm just a little annoyed by them, too.

"Well, fuck it all, Jeremy! You're not gonna let me off the hook, are you?"

He chuckles warmly, then.

"Son, you hooked yourself," he says. "If you want to be cut loose, you'll have to justify that to yourself as well."

I finally surrender to my fate. Wherever this business with Reed is going, I'm in it to the bitter end. Jeremy gives me his PADD and I install the special comm. chip, reminding him as I do that he needs to get to a private, secure place before replying to any messages Liz sends.

"An' if you ever get the chance to talk to the civilian doc, he doesn't know the baby was euthanized," I say. "Can you do me a favor an' take care not to tell him?"

Jeremy gives me a scowl. He doesn't like being dishonest, and he knows I know it.

"I won't bring the subject up," he agrees. "But I won't lie if he asks me about it."

"I'm not askin' you to lie," I assure him. "But if he does ask you directly, can you let me know right away that he's been told?"

"Yes, I can do that."

"Well, then, I think we're good," I tell him. Hopefully, and only half in jest, I add, "Unless you want to take charge of Operation 'Trip Tucker, Have You Lost Your Cotton-Pickin' Mind'?"

He laughs aloud then, and tells me, "You're doing just fine, son, and nobody who'd be willing to take over would have a better chance of success than you. I'm afraid you're stuck with it."

"Yeah, thanks a lot." He knows me well enough to realize that my thanks are more sincere than my sarcastic tone would indicate, but I give him a wink and a grin as I shake his hand anyway. "See you in an hour at the Morning Meeting."

"I'll be there with bells on!" he assures me.

Just before the door whooshes shut behind me, I call over my shoulder, "That might frighten the ladies!"

The last I hear from him is a shout of laughter, and I have to admit, I feel a whole lot better.

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