Chapter Fifty-Four

Connection

General Malcolm Reed

"Tell me something, Mistah Tucker," I say.

He grunts and hikes his brows inquisitively, as if he's really interested.

Every now and then he still makes a house-call to see how I'm getting on, and today is no different, except perhaps that the gesture appears a little more thoughtful than usual considering he's coming right back here the day after tomorrow. We drink coffee and talk about unimportant things, mostly, and now and again he touches on the idea that I've nothing to fear from him, and just as regularly I smile politely and disbelieve him.

A thought has suddenly occurred to me that puts me on edge. Actually, I should say it quite frightens me given just hours ago we met with Miguel to finalize plans and set the date for my pending surgery. He's not going to like the question, but if he really means all the crap he's been spouting the past few months, he'll understand my concern and give me an honest answer.

"Your brother-in-law, ah, he wouldn't happen to be the surgeon who did your, er..." I just gesture toward my face. A year ago, I wouldn't have had any problem making some insulting remark about the disfigurement that I had caused, but I'm beginning to realize that a lot has changed.

I see a flash of anger in his eyes when he cottons on to what I'm asking. I can't blame him. It's not like I don't remember him grinding his boot down on my fingers when my hand begins to ache during target practice, or, these days, from holding my cards while Liz beats me at gin rummy.

But then he snorts, and it's followed by a deep, throaty chuckle. He's actually amused, and his anger has evaporated just that quickly.

"No, Malcolm, Miguel is not a Starfleet Medical hack," he says proudly. "He graduated with honors from UT Southwestern Medical Center, Dallas. It's been consistently ranked among the world's top ten med schools for the past hundred years or so, but he's not a plastic surgeon, so I didn't go to him."

I nod. "That's reassuring." I hesitate, then offer, "If you like, I could get you the contact details on my man." I'm not sure why I do it. It only seems polite, not that I cared much about manners before. I didn't have to.

The Gorn's booby-trap had left me with scars to rival those I'd given Tucker, but I was fortunate, in very short order, to connect with a very gifted plastic surgeon who had some very ugly secrets to hide. I ensured he wouldn't kill me when he had me helplessly unconscious under his scalpel by injecting him with a slow-acting poison. It left him plenty of time to complete the surgery, but not enough to identify the poison and acquire the antidote. When I awoke from my surgery, along with a strong admonishment to be available 'for further consultation' in case I wasn't happy with the results of his work, I gave him the location of the antidote and the password to access it.

"Of course, I can't say that telling him how you got his name would make him very enthusiastic about taking you on as a patient," I warn him as an afterthought, with an evil grin. "But it might make him a bit worried about what might happen if he refused."

Tucker gives me a speculative look, like he's trying to determine whether I'm taunting him or being sincere. I'm not taunting him, but I'm not sure I'm what one would consider sincere, either. I'm trying to behave in a way that would be considered 'appropriate' under the circumstances because it seems to be what Tucker wants from me and, until I know what he's up to, I'm safest if I do what I can to appease him.

Finally, he tries a smile. "Yeah, I'd appreciate that," he says, "though the longer I wait, the less it matters. Most of the people who matter to me don't care how I look, and most of the people who care how I look don't matter to me, 'cept for the Empress and my mama. Hoshi's main concern seems to be not liking to look at ugly people."

I snort. He laughs with me. We share a look, but do not otherwise acknowledge the tenuous connection.

"Mama doesn't like it 'cause it reminds her I've been hurt."

"I'm sorry." It's out of my mouth almost before it's through my brain.

Tucker turns to look me directly in the eye then. His expression is one of genuine, if mild, interest.

"Really?" There's no challenge in his tone. He just wants an honest answer.

I have to think about it. What was my intent when I rigged that bypass? Ah, yes, to prove Martin Roberts guilty of treason... and to kill then-Commander Tucker. Why? Because I hated him. That was enough, wasn't it?

"Really," I reply. My voice is low; it's not easy to get the words out, but they need to be said. "I am sorry. I never meant to hurt your mother."

"Yet you thought killing me wouldn't have hurt her?" He's incredulous. I wonder briefly how he'll take what I say next, but what the hell does he think it takes to open fire on enemies of the Empire? He thinks you can pause with your finger on the trigger and worry whether the bastard in your sights has a poor grey-haired old mother who'll cry her eyes out over the coffin?

"To be perfectly honest, Commodore, it would simply never have occurred to me that you might have a mother who was still alive and cared about you," I explain tersely. "And to be even more brutally honest, if by any unlikely chance it had occurred to me, it wouldn't have affected my judgement in the slightest. In case you haven't noticed, Starfleet is seldom a career choice for happy, well-adjusted individuals."

He actually laughs aloud at that. It wasn't meant to be funny, but I understand how it must have sounded to him.

When he sobers, he catches my gaze again and says, "Some of us don't get a choice, General."

He extends his right hand toward me and says, "Apology accepted, Malcolm. You're forgiven."

I feel something strange in my chest, and I know it has nothing to do with the device he's implanted there. Again, because it seems to be the 'appropriate' thing to do, I reach toward him, and we shake on it. As he grasps my hand, he turns it, studying the scars from the surgeries to repair the fingers he destroyed. Considering the nature of my job, the requirements to fire weapons and sometimes disarm them, the damage could have ended my career.

"I'm sorry about that," he says, and in the midst of the turmoil I feel at having such a valued part of me actually held, now it's my turn to wonder. But he doesn't make me ask if he means it, instead going on of his own accord, "At the time, I was thinkin' about the four hours I'd spent in the Agony Booth. I wanted you to feel every minute of them just as keenly as I had. I meant to hurt you, and I meant to do a real good job of it. Actually, if we're both bein' honest, I meant to stomp you to death."

Such a bald statement is chilling, even to me, especially coming from someone who has it in his power to strike me down at the touch of a button, and especially when that person, having ample reason to do so, hasn't. While I'm no stranger to having such sentiments, I rarely speak them aloud. My preference is usually to couch them in sarcasm and cruel humour or cleverly-worded, thinly-veiled threats.

Our little war could go on forever, or at least until one of us succeeds in killing the other. But Tucker seems willing enough to end it, or at least call a temporary cease fire. While I can't speculate on his reasons, I can at least meet him part way, if only because it will allow me more time to recover from my recent ordeal.

"I'd say we're even, now," I tell him a little awkwardly as he releases me. "I accept your apology."

"I don't know about even..." He looks down at his coffee cup with a frown.

"We could play tit-for-tat forever," I interrupt. "Is that what you want?"

His gaze meets mine squarely. "No, but after the last year..."

"You were in no position to refuse...them." I find myself incapable of saying their names right now. I'm not even capable of holding his eyes while I think of what I endured since the day I came to Jupiter Station, and by whose command it was done to me. "I'm a lot of things and not many of them nice, but I'm not a fool; it didn't matter a rat's arse whether you agreed with it or not. You had to co-operate. I realize that. And while you may have robbed me of the opportunity for revenge, I can't deny that I owe you my life." I swallow huskily, and the unavoidable admission comes out slowly and reluctantly. "I...I'm grateful."

He nods slowly. "In that case, you're welcome. And Malcolm, you should know, my friends call me Trip."

"I do know that, Commodore Tucker, but we're not there yet."

When he looks surprised and rather hurt, I tap my chest and gesture toward his left wrist where he wears the controller that can make my heart stop.

I'll give him credit, he doesn't come out with any bullshit. He just nods slowly. "You're right, Malcolm. I guess it'll take the both of us a little longer."

If you've been enjoying this story, please consider leaving a brief review.