Chapter Sixty-Six

Running Out of Time

Lieutenant JG Elizabeth Cutler

"Still no luck?"

I ask it sympathetically, but then I don't really have to ask. The minute Trip came through the door, I knew that once again – after many times of asking – Malcolm had refused to cooperate.

He sets his tray down. As the chief of the station he could eat in his own private mess or have his food taken to his quarters, but he's taken to eating lunch in the Mess Hall like the rest of us. At first it caused a bit of a hush and a rustle of whispers, but nowadays only the visitors stare. The station staff greet him as he passes their tables, and he invariably replies with their names, which he gets correct every time. The private mess is now reserved for entertaining visiting dignitaries and special occasions such as promotions and retirements, the most recent being Major Burnell's promotion to Lieutenant Colonel and SiC of the MACOS and Lieutenant Crawley's subsequent move to Major and Chief of Security for Jupiter Station.

When Trip decided to dine with the throng, the one concession upon which Chef insisted was that he have a reserved table set in a little alcove. It gives a measure of privacy, which Chef intended to give him a few moments peace in which to enjoy the meals she works to prepare to his liking, but in reality allows for low-voiced conversation that nearby diners wouldn't usually be able to overhear. I was anxious to know how he'd gotten on this morning, so I took a seat there a few minutes before he usually turns up for lunch, thankful that T'Pol hadn't staked her claim first; though she would never say so in so many words, I'm pretty sure she still regards me with deep suspicion.

"No," he says heavily, reaching for the basket of bread rolls and taking one that's heavily studded with pumpkin seeds. Automatically I rest my fingers on the neatly-folded napkin beside my plate containing one sprinkled with poppy-seeds. They're Malcolm's favorite.

He rips the roll in half, but instead of getting on with buttering it he lays it down on the plate and stares at it glumly. "I was so sure this was goin' to be the day. He was actually listenin' to me for once. Near the end, I … I really thought he was thinkin' about it. Then all of a sudden he just shuts up an' walks away.

"That's the way it is, every time. I get so far, an' no further. It's like I trip some kind of mechanism an' he just shuts down.

"I could push him, Liz, but fact is I'm not sure I'm ever gonna get through to him. He's shut up tighter'n a duck's ass an' armored like an Andorian battle-cruiser." After a long pause he lifts troubled blue eyes to mine. "Thing is, what do I do with him if he won't play ball?"

My throat tightens. This is the question I've prayed none of us would ever have to ask, but time's passing, Malcolm's getting his strength back and the chances of a rebellion in the Empire get stronger every day. We need a strong man to support Hoshi and Malcolm is the ideal candidate, with the power of the MACOs at his back. I've tried to avoid the thought that even if his price for that support was marriage to her, Trip would strike that deal to keep the Empire stable. As bad as it is now, a power struggle would be the worst possible outcome for the poor, who are always the first to suffer while the battles for control trample back and forth across their lives.

Malcolm himself undoubtedly knows this. I don't for a moment imagine that he's all that worried about the potential casualties of a power struggle, but I'm quite sure he'd rather take power without a struggle rather than have to fight for it and risk losing. I'm also sure that he sees Trip as a rival with equal ambitions to his own, whereas I'm absolutely certain that Trip hasn't the temperament to deal with the seething cross-currents of power around the throne.

They are two fundamentally different people. One enjoys power because it allows him to make things work better, while the other enjoys power because it allows him to feel safe. Although I understand that this is yet more evidence for the deep damage that must have been inflicted on Malcolm during his formative years, the problem is that his insecurity has led into a vicious spiral in which he is now pinned as surely as though it were made of razor wire: he mistreats others because they hate him, and so they hate him because he mistreats them.

And so it goes on.

But Malcolm's intransigence now poses a problem for Trip. In coming here after all the time he spent in the Bunker, he's learned so much about the operation that he's a deadly threat. If he remains hostile, we can't let him loose – he'd destroy us in half an hour. Even if he had no ambitions towards the throne itself, he could lay the 'rebellion' in Hoshi's lap wrapped up with a gilt bow, a nest of traitors whose head made an art form of peculating spare parts for illegal construction projects and time-expired medicines and food for undercover charity distribution, as well as substandard blankets and clothing. Not to mention withholding valuable technical information for his own use during the course of reverse-engineering the Defiant.

If he were a decent man, he'd probably offer to keep silent about what he knows in return for his life and his freedom. And if he were dealing with a decent man, Trip would probably be inclined to take the risk and accept the offer. But truly decent men are few and far between in the Empire, and much as I love Malcolm I'm not blind to what he is. He would never regard himself bound by any agreement obtained under coercion, and he has more than enough reasons to want Trip's head on a platter.

"You can't ever let him go." The steadiness of my own low voice surprises me.

He puts a hand lightly over mine. "I've been tryin' to think how to tell you that, Liz. Thank you for sayin' it."

I take two small wrapped pats of butter from the china dish beside the rolls and tuck them into the napkin. I think it genuinely amuses Malcolm to have me smuggle food in to him, though he's perfectly well fed and his digestive system seems to have recovered totally from the months of disuse.

"What will you do with him?"

Silence.

"Trip, you must have some idea. I promise I won't tell him anything, I just want to know."

His eyes study me. I know what he sees: the sad little bitch who'll do anything her lover tells her to, who'll lie and cheat and steal to buy him one more hour of life.

"I'm still keepin' my options open," he says, trying to sound reassuring. "We have time yet."

Then he smiles at me. I know it's not real. When he's smiling for real, his eyes twinkle like there are stars in them. That's how I know he's already made up his mind. He'll wait as long as he can for Malcolm to buy into his plans, but he's already prepared for a final solution if it's needed.

"I can talk to him," I offer. Surely Malcolm trusts me just a little? After all I've done for him?

Clearly, Trip has already considered this option. He shakes his head, the movement regretful but definite. "No, Liz, I think that's the worst thing you could do for him. He actually does trust you, I think, even after what I had you do to bring him here from the Bunker. If you start lobbyin' for me, that trust will be destroyed. It'll make it harder for me to convince him, too, because he'll know I'm gettin' frustrated, an' he'll resent me usin' you to pressure him. This has to stay between him an' me."

"But what if you can't convince him?"

He smirks lopsidedly. "I guess I'll burn that bridge when I come to it."

Trip never kills, if he can help it, but what else could he do with Malcolm? My mind spins, looking for any other possible ways out of the trap that seems to allow only one exit.

"There, there are drugs," I whisper, feeling sick with disgust at myself for even making the suggestion, "that can erase a man's mind, make him a blank slate. You could turn him into whatever you wanted. We could say he'd gotten sick, but still use him to control the MACOs till the situation settles down…" Oh, God, am I really suggesting such a thing? "Or surgical procedures, one's called a lobotomy. He'll be childlike. Innocent. You can beam us down somewhere in the wilderness, some deserted planet somewhere if Earth would be too dangerous, and I'll look after him. For the rest of his life, I'll look after him, Trip."

I know as soon as the word 'drugs' is out of my mouth that I'm saying the wrong thing. When Trip is angry, his eyes can burn like lasers, and they're scorching me now. But I have to carry on and say the rest of it. All of it. I have to fight for Malcolm. I'm the only one who will.

Trip is more than disgusted by my suggestions, he's incensed that I should even think he'd fall in with them. He leans across the table to give me the glare at close quarters, just in case it wasn't intimidating enough to start with. "Liz, don't you think enough's been done to the poor guy already?" he growls. "If you think I rescued him from Phlox's little shop of horrors to turn him into my puppet, you're out of your goddamn mind!"

"But you don't have to kill him!" I plead desperately, keeping my voice low. I can feel tears pricking at my eyes, but I blink them away; none of this is Trip's fault, and he doesn't deserve to be made to feel worse for something he can't help. I already know he hates seeing a woman cry.

I'm sure he knows perfectly well the anguish that rends me at the thought that all this effort might be for nothing, and that the man I love may have to die after all. His glare softens, and he gives my arm a squeeze before he leans back again. "I don't want to," he tells me, and I believe him. I have to believe him, though his face is still troubled as he looks across at me. "I'll do my damnedest not to, Liz, but you try offerin' him that choice, an' come back an' tell me which option he picks."

=/\=

I don't, of course.

I tried playing chess with Malcolm when he started recovering enough to move the chosen piece without scattering the rest all over the board, and a very few games (well, more like 'bloodbaths' actually) were enough to reveal my complete lack of anything more than the most basic knowledge of the game.

Disgusted by this lack of skill, he elected to teach me rather than play against me. I set up the computer at the most basic of beginner's levels, and even though he rolled his eyes at the humiliation of it, he had me sit beside him and walked me through each step of the game as it unfolded.

"You're too impulsive," he said over and over again. "You should never make a move without thinking through what advantage your enemy could gain from it."

I knew from the bitter twist of his mouth that he wasn't just referring to chess, but he didn't press the point.

I have to say that he was extraordinarily patient. He'd wait for me to study the board and try to imagine the computer's response before telling him what move I proposed to make. After which, he'd mostly explain why it was a really stupid idea – at least, that was what he meant, but he was surprisingly tactful about it, especially at first. Later, when my skills improved a bit, I got the Eyebrow Lift, and if that didn't work I got the Stare, but he was a really good teacher, far better than pretty well anyone would have believed.

With him requiring so much rest while he underwent physiotherapy to strengthen his muscles and restore his stamina, we had plenty of time. Anything that gave me one-on-one time with him was a bonus, as far as I was concerned, and Miguel said the stimulation of concentrating on the game was good for his mind, which needed to work as much as his muscles did.

So I've been getting better. Lately I've even started to worry the computer. At least, if it was a human it would have been worried, though Malcolm said 'Not very', and grinned.

This has put an idea in my mind.

Today, instead of carrying in the PADD set up ready for the next round, I carry in the actual chess board – the one on which I was so comprehensively destroyed previously, with the wooden box containing the pieces under my arm. It belongs to Mike Rostov, who carved the pieces and the box in his spare time. Although nothing like the pieces on the computer generation, they're beautifully done; he must have spent hours polishing down the smooth surfaces. I particularly love the knights. Rostov's parents own a stud farm, and the horse heads are so detailed you half expect them to neigh, their long manes flying in waves from their arched necks.

Malcolm has just come out of the shower when I arrive, and is toweling his hair dry. The only thing he's wearing is a bath-sheet, knotted at his waist, and his state of undress allows me to see that his muscle tone is definitely improving. He walks through the bathroom doorway with something like his old grace, and better still, something of the hunted, haunted look has started to fade from around his eyes.

He notices the chessboard immediately, of course. His lips curve, and his eyes take on a speculative gleam. "Oho, we are feeling reckless today," he purrs as he watches me set out the board and pieces on the table.

"I think I let you off way too easily last time," I sass him.

"Apart from the fact that I rolled you over, buttered you all over the landscape and then danced a Tango on the remains, whatever gave you that impression?"

"Tchah. I think you'd have to work much harder to beat me now."

"You mean checkmate you in six moves rather than four?"

I stick my chin out at him. "You're just scared you'll lose."

That, of course, is a challenge he'd never refuse. Throwing the hand-towel back in the general direction of the washbasin, he saunters to the table and looks down at me, his eyes narrowed in a way that's familiar enough to send shivers down my spine – though not quite the same shivers as I used to feel. "I do believe this is a dare."

"And if it is?"

He holds my gaze a moment longer, then slowly pulls out the chair opposite me. "Then I believe the rules of a dare involve establishing a forfeit for the loser."

He hasn't bothered to dry himself thoroughly yet, and beads of moisture trickle down his skin, which is still glowing from the heat of the shower. It's warm enough in here for him to be able to walk and even sit around half-dressed, and I'm definitely not going to remind him about getting clothes on if he doesn't think of it for himself. A quip involving the word 'checkmate' trembles on my lips for a moment, but I bite it back. There's so much I want to explore of this suddenly almost flirtatious Malcolm that I'm sure he can almost hear the swallow.

Stockholm Syndrome. The term flits through my mind again. I know Miguel's convinced that's what I'm suffering from.

He's managed to get the computer to synthesize some of his favorite aftershave. I can smell it – fresh and spicy, like pine needles. It acquires earthier tones when it's mixed with sweat.

I deliberately resist the urge to shift on my chair. His attention is fixed on me like that of a listening owl, all predatory attention.

After a moment, he breaks eye contact, picking up one of the knights as though admiring it. "I have to admit, it's a new concept for me," he remarks, dropping into the chair and replacing the knight on its square. "Does one choose the forfeit for oneself, or does the winner choose his own?"

I give him some more chin. "Or her own."

In your dreams. The lazy grin says it more clearly than any words could do.

"Your move."

If you've enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving a review.