Well, this is it - the last chapter. I'd like to say thank you to everyone that reviewed: Catspaw, Leyli, Jill-ka, PJinNH, Evil Penguin Plushie, Carol, Am. I hope I haven't forgotten anybody but my reviews pages are playing up a bit today and I can't be certain it's all displayed.
Catspaw (very nicely) suggested I could try original fiction. We must think alike! I've been playing with some original stuff, but none of it's quite ready for genera reading yet. As soon as it is, I'll probably be posting something at FictionPress.net to see how it goes.
Thanks everyone for reading!
NOTHING LASTS FOREVER
Faceless, it stared back at him from its place of honor—or was it its place of accusatory exhibition, like evidence presented at a trial? Silent, it whispered tones of unrest through the tempered air. Clean air, unscented air. He had left the lights on, as if in salute, because he could—but they were dim, and reflected little from the mirror that mocked him so unobtrusively.
It was, after all, the middle of the night.
He had slept the afternoon away in dreamless peace, waking in his own bunk with a soothing glow seeping through his body, and a tangle of bedclothes restraining him as surely as a set of handcuffs had once done. Enterprise's latent power pulsed gently through the bunk's frame as she sped through a vista of stars, carrying her crew to other strange new worlds before the dust of the last had settled over its unwitting participants.
Reed twisted in his swaddle of blankets, the sweat that must have streamed from him in his sleep tugging the folds with him, and stared into the dull reflection of the raccoon-eyed, horribly sunburned man there. A man who had lain with his right cheek and shoulder to the deck as the light fused into what remained exposed, and who was now a two-tone piebald. The reflection watched him as he watched it, but it was his own. It was within the bounds of the human universe where he belonged, and where he now existed once more.
Talk to me, he murmured, the coarseness of his own voice surprising him. This silence is going to drive me to drink before I'm very much older.
The mirror, and indeed his own resistant thoughts, declined, and a silence settled back like roused dust, lying thinly over everything and ready to take wing again at the slightest disturbance. Even his own voice, weaker and paler than he was accustomed to hearing it, sounded strange to him now.
Under his bedclothes he was mostly undressed, and wearing only the Starfleet-issue jockey shorts he had worn when he entered decon. The small audience he had nodded to on his way inside must have returned him to his quarters and hustled him into his bunk to sleep it off. Ruefully, Reed indulged in a private grimace which the unforgiving mirror caught, duplicated, and made public to the sleeping room in all its red-and-white glory; he could only hope Hoshi and T'Pol had not lent a hand.
T'Pol. So many of the moments prior to his blackout refused to come even as he willed them forward; he could recall, with excruciating detail like a nail driven into his skull with a mallet, what the subcommander had been confronted with, what he himself had put her through . . . but the memory was distanced, a shadow, and hardly felt his own. He wished he could say that what had come from his mouth—and from his mind—had in no way been his, a notion planted by the Dark Man and by chemical cocktails beyond his flimsy human ability to control . . . but the doubt, and the fact, remained. Defense was his life, the one ability in which he had always excelled; the promise of power too great for any enemy of the Enterprise and of Starfleet had been the one ambrosia that could tempt him. As, no doubt, the Dark Man's desire for anonymity had corrupted him into abuse of those same gifts. They were gifts; but they were also a curse. Reed was glad, so glad, to finally be rid of them. He didn't want to be any more different than he already was.
He tossed and turned an hour away in his bunk, awake and aching, his skin a trail of bright, itching fire beneath the welts of sunburn—but skin-deep, and no deeper. The part of him still tuned to reality listened, albeit in snatches, for the march of boots outside—his own security men, coming to take him for court martial. He no longer wanted sleep, and shunned with an instinctive repulsion he did not recognize as fear every attempt unconsciousness made to steal over him again. He did not know, quite, how he had blacked out the first time.
T'Pol. She had humored him to the best of her Vulcan ability, approached him, and shown him a singularly unjudging attitude—for a Vulcan—and then, lights out. The connection, one which felt both real and imagined, was unmissable, and quite unrepayable.
Even her name drove him back, his mind flinching from every thought concerning her as burned fingers flinch from a naked flame, but, like a man reaching into the fire for something worth having, Reed coaxed himself to make contact with them. He had been trying not to focus on how much of his inner thoughts had been laid bare, not merely to a Vulcan with no possible concept of the feelings woven into their very fiber, but to Hoshi, to Trip, to all of them. And the captain must think him an insubordinate madman.
Reed dragged the pillow over his face, taking refuge in darkness, relishing the silence within this tiny cave—and relishing this time, at least, when he did not yet have to face them. Dreading resolution with one person was worry enough, and would have him sweating in the everyday course of things—to dread each one of them, different apologies and different thanks to give in turn, was a nightmare. He had no way of knowing which of them he may encounter when he next set foot outside that door.
He shuddered so forcefully the bunk tremored beneath him, resigned to the fact that his own anonymity was over—and confronted, at last, with the horrible realization that secrecy mattered almost as much to him as it had to his life's worst enemy to date.
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His first confrontation did not take place outside this room, nor did he encounter' the person it concerned in the accidental way he had expected he would. Hours into the night there came a whistle at his door, and when he did not immediately reply, there followed a solid knock, knuckles on metal, that could originate only with one very forceful individual.
Malcolm? Hey buddy, you alive in there?
The joke, to Reed's mind, was singularly distasteful.
Come in, Commander, he called out, desperate not to. I don't think it's locked.
It wasn't. The door clicked silently back and Trip stepped amiably inside, not waiting for the invite's repeat. There was a slow smile seasoning the commander's mouth, for once a closed mouth, but his face was gray above it, faintly concerned. Feelin' rested? he asked, the smirk spreading without guile but never quite touching his eyes.
Yes, actually. Amazing what a nap can do for you. Or against you, he thought, bitterly remembering his walkabout to the armory, to engineering, and the dreams that had sparked it all. He decided, in the end, not to share the comment.
'Specially a fourteen-hour nap. It's tomorrow, Lieutenant. Guess you musta slept right through.
Reed pulled himself up a little straighter, and reached automatically for the blue vest hanging on the chair beside his bunk. He couldn't honestly say he was surprised at the news. I suppose I must have.
Nasty sunburn you got, there. Must hurt like even your first hangover never did. It's not everyday ya get to look like a stick o' rock, huh, Malcolm?
You know, the good thing about getting fourteen hours' sleep is that I feel more than rested enough to stand up and thump you.
Come to think of it, T'Pol did mention you weren't feelin' too pretty at the time. Only she didn't say it like that.
Reed's back stiffened, the vest half-straightened over skin that screamed as the fabric brushed it. What did she say it like?
She said you showed signs of fatigue and discomfort', whatever that means, Trip replied, launching into a passable if sarcastic imitation of their Vulcan science officer. Phlox just stood there smilin' and sayin' she should win an award for understatement. Gotta say I agree with him—that was the best we could wrestle outta her. Trip shot Reed a sidelong glance, and for that instant, the smile vanished thoughtfully. 'Spose there was nothin' to tell.
Reed agreed, careful not to make the response too quickly. No, there was nothing of any consequence. I didn't feel quite myself at the time, that's all.
Seems to me like that Vulcan's not feelin' quite herself, either. She apologized to me for giving me the runaround yesterday mornin'. Can you believe that? Just when I think I can rely on her to be the same old annoyin' little know-it-all, she goes and gets nice on me? What's wrong with the woman?
Reed smiled, keeping it to himself—as she, it seemed, had kept things to herself. It was another thing they shared—they both knew how to keep a secret. Maybe she's learning the logic of being . . . human, he said, but almost to himself. She had certainly shown more mercy than he would ever have thought possible. What did she have to apologize to you about?
Oh, we, er . . . we kinda had a fallin' out, the commander said hastily, his eyes flickering away for a second to the mirror replaying all their static conversation. Reed could clearly see the discomfort in his friend's face, turned aside from him but nevertheless crystallized in the glass. Got into a bit of a fight. You know how it is.
Of course. The secret existing behind the commander's eager affability lurked a fraction out of reach, as the shadowlands that rested beneath reality's surface were out of reach—for humans, at any rate.
He understood effortlessly just what had happened, and could not help but find the chain of events amusing in a sour sort of way. T'Pol had spoken of her own experience with the temporarily mind-altering side effects of the Dark Man's mark, and had mentioned how Captain Archer incapacitated her—but she had revealed none of what transpired in between. Reed had his suspicions that Trip's role in T'Pol's insanity had reflected her role in his; and her gratitude for the commander's silence, coupled with her very Vulcan sense of verbal economy, had persuaded her to bite her tongue in turn. It seemed even Mr. Tucker could keep his mouth shut when it suited him. And, indirectly, it was Trip he had to thank for T'Pol's silence. It was the least Reed owed him to return a little of the favor in the only way he could.
he said, suddenly. There's something I think you should hear, before . . . well, before we all move on and this becomes another of those incidences we don't talk about.
Sounds important, he said, a vein of worry entering his voice. It was true, and they both knew it. They didn't talk enough.
Commander, that phase pistol you took from the armory . . . the one that wasn't . . . that wasn't set to stun. It wasn't your fault.
Trip stared at him, uncomprehending. What do you mean, it wasn't . . ? I know what a stickler you are for keepin' your armory in order, Lieutenant; you're as uptight as a Vulcan in the sixth year of their dry spell. Now there ain't no way you left one of your phase pistols set to kill. I musta knocked it on the way that night . . .
You didn't, Commander. It was me. I sleepwalked and . . . he made me alter the setting on the phase pistol he knew you would take, and give to Hoshi. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't Hoshi's fault. To be perfectly honest with you it wasn't even mine.
Trip's shoulders slumped, visibly, and a tuneful sound of a quality neither good nor bad, merely undecided, escaped his lips. You've gotta be kiddin' me, he breathed.
Would you prefer I was?
No, no, course not. It's . . . well, it's a weight off, is what it is. Thanks, Malcolm.
You're welcome. Trip.
Trip beamed, and his familiar, larger-than-life demeanor fell back into place, dancing with undaunted mischief. You know, he mused. I think that's the first time I've ever heard you call me that.
Reed smiled back, and hoped, privately, that it wouldn't be the last.
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Trip had no sooner left, idly muttering that something in the room had put him in the mood for raspberry-ripple ice cream, when Reed's com chirruped in mimicry of his door tone. The mirror, in its unquenchably innocent way, parodied his moves as he leant over and depressed the key beside his bed, expecting to hear a call to the captain's ready-room in answer to his offenses.
If that's you going on about lollipops again, Mr. Tucker . . .
came Hoshi's clear, proud, and softly feminine voice over the com channel, rendering him speechless instantly. It's good to hear you're awake.
Reed subsided and sank back in his warm nest, passive and smiling. So he was safe from Mr. Tucker's jokes and from disciplinary action, at least for the time being. Morning, Hoshi, he slurred, and ran a hand gently over the angered side of his face, then briskly across the other, contemplating the unsightly scratch of stubble there. Not so long as he would have imagined, perhaps one day's growth in place of two, but still undesirable.
He shot a disgruntled glance at the mirror, and sighed. An officer at his best, after all, is always well groomed. Today he looked like the bowl of strawberries and cream to Phlox's cornish pasty.
Did the commander tell you the news? she asked, eagerly.
He ranted about T'Pol a bit. What news?
We're heading for Titrinus. There was an unmistakable smugness to her tone, as if they had all drawn straws to determine who would tell him, and she had won.
What? Why?
The captain thought it would be impolite to keep them waiting for their cargo any longer than we already have. We're delivering what we have of the nanobots, sir.
Sir. In just one word, the tentative steps towards friendship they appeared to have taken vanished like mist in the morning sun. Maybe he had imagined, all along, that her slip from protocol meant anything. Maybe she had merely been humoring a potentially volatile superior while the danger lasted. Reed closed his eyes, exhaled between his teeth, and dropped his forehead against his clammy forearm.
The power to do good had tempted him, in a moment too brief to hold and too lasting to excuse, to accept the gift given him. The promise of finally finding the place he belonged had tempted him as strongly to refuse them.
I appreciate being informed, Ensign, he said, at last. He despaired of the distance he heard there, too used to it to feel much else beyond a weary resignation. What's our E.T.A?
A little over four days, maybe five. We're passing through a busy trade route in this sector, remember?
I remember. I trust you've caught up on your sleep a little?
Ten hours and I didn't move once, she reported. I still have aches on my aches.
Reed smiled, secure in the knowledge that she would never see him teasing her that way. Hoshi could never keep up the by-the-book mentality for long.
And he wouldn't want her to.
So—is T'Pol still carrying the nanobots? Surely they wouldn't have survived decon . . ? And the copper, surely they can't survive in —
No, Lieutenant, they're in a safe place. It's one of the reasons the captain is so eager to get there. They're in Porthos.
Porthos? They're in a dog?
Even over the com, he could see her nod and feel her smile, both wickedly. He seems fine. Phlox is confident the nanobots never caused any of the side effects you and the subcommander encountered. And I swear Porthos has never had so much cheese in his life.
Malcolm smiled to himself thinly. No side effects. He glanced down at the unmarked skin of his left shoulder, and reflected that his own handiwork would make Phlox green with envy. Maybe they should have just injected them into Porthos to begin with and saved us all a lot of time and trouble.
There was a silence, and Reed realized bashfully that he had given a non-sequitor. His eyes wandered idly across the room, settling past the mirror onto a half-laden chessboard to one side. The black knight looked to be in immediate danger from the white queen. We never finished our chess game, he said, wistfully.
Well, I didn't want you to feel bad about losing.
Reed's gaze skimmed the board again. Oh, I wouldn't worry about that . . . not when you're in checkmate, Ensign.
I am not.
Well, I would recommend you see for yourself, but we both know that wouldn't work.
She laughed, and he joined her. There were a lot of things still to explain—but for now he felt curiously free.
He calmed first, and asked his next question before she had even regained her composure. Is the captain going to press charges? I mean . . . has he mentioned anything to you?
It's all right, Malcolm. He knows enough from Trip and me to know you did what you had to do. And you've more than made up for it. It was you that gave us our air back, wasn't it?
He considered lying, if only for the sake of the peace, but if anyone on the crew would call him to book for it then it was Hoshi with her female intuition. It doesn't matter, Ensign. You would have done the same.
Thank you, she said quietly.
It took the wind from his sails completely.
Well. So long as I don't have to see those handcuffs again any time soon. I still have a rash all around my wrist.
He expected her to laugh again, but she didn't.
Do you know what the name Reed' means, Lieutenant? she asked softly.
No. Well, yes, it's a type of grass that grows around lakes. Ironic really, considering I'm allergic to most of them. He smiled, privately. But somehow I don't think that's what you're referring to.
It can mean somebody who is easily swayed or overcome,'. She paused, inviting a repsonse. He could give none. You made the right choice, Lieutenant. Having a superhuman around was useful for a while, the whole thing could have been a . . . a nightmare, otherwise . . . but I think I like the human version better.
When he caught his own face in the mirror again, he saw with surprise that he was smiling. Despite the pain in his sunburned face, he let it remain.
Nothing lasts forever, Ensign. Not even nightmares.