A/N: You should know before reading this that I am a part-Irish, part- Scottish, part-British, all-American mutt.

Chapter 4: Time's winged chariot

++

Had we but world enough, and time This coyness, lady, were no crime. . . But at my back, I always hear, Time's winged chariot hurrying near. . .

-Andrew Marvell, "To His Coy Mistress"

++

Six months later . . .

Malcolm balanced the breakfast tray on one hand while he entered his access code to T'Pol's quarters with the other. As the door opened, he looked over the tray. A bowl of fruit salad, two plates with pancakes, a small bowl filled with peanut butter, two cups of orange juice, silverware, and a chocolate sundae for T'Pol (not easy to get at this time of morning, but he had managed it by promising chef some self-defense lessons).

When he entered the room, T'Pol was emerging from the head with a towel draped over her shoulders, wearing loose trousers and a short t-shirt, which left her swollen belly exposed. Malcolm grinned at the sight. T'Pol looked good pregnant, as he had known she would. She practically glowed with health.

"Good morning, T'Pol," he said cheerfully.

"Good morning, Malcolm." She began to dry her hair with the towel.

"Sleep well?"

"Yes. And you?"

"I'd have slept better if I could have spent the night here with you." He set the tray down on the desk and she pulled the chair back to sit, wedging her belly in between the desk and chair.

"We have discussed this. My bed is not large enough to accommodate both of us."

"I could sleep on the floor. I wouldn't mind," he said, sitting down on the bed. She handed him his plate and a fork.

"That is unnecessary. You have a bed in your quarters." She spread a thick layer of peanut butter on her pancakes, then topped it off with a dollop of ice cream dripping with chocolate syrup. Malcolm watched her in fascination, although he had observed this spectacle many times in the past several months.

"I know that. I just like to be with you. What's wrong with that?"

T'Pol did not respond. She cut herself an enormous bite of pancake and stuffed it into her mouth, dabbing her lips daintily with the napkin while she chewed. Within minutes she had cleaned her plate and started in on the rest of the sundae.

Malcolm finished his pancakes and set the plate on the desk. "Are you ready to meditate?"

"Soon. First I would like to have a discussion."

Malcolm felt his stomach drop. It had been nearly seven months since she had announced her pregnancy, and she had yet to make a decision on where she would raise the child.

"All right. What would you like to discuss?"

T'Pol prized herself out of the chair and began to light the meditation candles. "Please be seated."

He took his cushion and sat in his customary place on the floor, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees as she had taught him. But he was anything but relaxed. He watched her anxiously as she worked. After she had lit all of the candles, she carefully carried the tall pillar over and set it between them, then eased herself down onto her cushion.

"I have decided on a name for the child."

"Oh?" he said with considerable relief. "What's your idea?"

"My son will be named Aidan."

"What?" Malcolm spluttered. "Aidan? But that's an--"

"I am aware that it is a human name. It is similar to my mother's father's name."

"I was going to say it's an Irish name. Your grandfather is named Aidan?"

"No, his name was Aden. As you can see, the pronunciation is similar."

"I thought all Vulcan men's names started with S."

"That is a common misconception."

"But--but--Aidan is an Irish name," he repeated stubbornly, shaking his head.

"I do not understand the significance of that statement."

"The Irish and the British have been at each others' throats for centuries. I can't give my son an Irish name!"

"You hate the Irish simply because you are British?"

"I don't hate the Irish. It's complicated. Suffice it to say that I can't have a son called Aidan."

T'Pol's lips met in a thin line. "It is the name I choose."

"You don't understand."

"I would like to give my son a human name so that he is more likely to be accepted on Earth. I do not believe he will be accepted on Vulcan."

"You don't think--you don't think your own people will accept him?"

"He will be tolerated, that is all. He will never be accepted as a full member of society."

"At least Vulcan prejudice is covert. On Earth our son will most likely endure open harassment and bigotry, no matter what his name is."

"Humans have proven themselves to be open-minded toward members of other species."

"No, T'Pol. The humans you've met may appear open-minded and tolerant, but you've never had to sit through a family dinner at the Reed household. Bigotry is alive and well amongst average humans."

"I believe there is a greater chance of him being accepted on Earth than on Vulcan. I have become comfortable around humans. It is logical to raise the child on Earth."

"Damnit, T'Pol, you're not listening! You don't know how--how cruel humans can be to someone who's different."

"Humans, at least, are honest regarding their emotions. Members of many species have made their homes on Earth. They are considered members of society."

Malcolm's voice cranked up a notch. "They are never fully accepted! They'll always be aliens! I don't want that to happen to my son. At least on Vulcan he'll look like everyone else."

"This child will be half-human. He will not look like everyone else," T'Pol said emphatically.

"You said the Vulcan genes would predominate. That means he'll look Vulcan."

"He will not be full Vulcan. He will not be accepted."

"Well, he won't be on Earth, either!"

"You are becoming angry."

Malcolm forced his fists to unclench. "No, I'm not! I'm trying to have a rational discussion with you, but you're making it difficult."

"I am responding calmly and logically," she said with barely perceptible heat in her voice. "You are responding with anger."

"I'm not angry!!" Malcolm exploded, slamming his fist into the cushion.

"Physical outbursts only cause destruction. They are not conducive to rational discussion."

Malcolm felt fury building inside him, like a coiled snake in his chest. "Don't you see!?" he burst out. "Humans can be irrational! Humans lose their tempers! Do you really want your son to be on the receiving end of that?"

"No, I do not. Malcolm, I do not believe you are ready to be a father."

T'Pol rose gracefully to her feet, and Malcolm followed. "What?"

"You are demonstrating childish behavior. I feel that your inability to control your emotions may lead to danger. Please leave before you do any harm."

Malcolm's anger cooled instantly at the terrifying thought of causing harm to either T'Pol or his child. With voice breaking, he said, "No, T'Pol, please. I'll control myself. I--I'm sorry."

T'Pol pointed to the door. "Please go."

Malcolm looked back and forth between the blank, closed door, and T'Pol's face, which was equally blank and closed off. He briefly squeezed his eyes shut against the emotions that welled up inside him. He wanted to scream, throw something, curl up into a ball and cry, but he did none of those things. Instead he walked calmly to the door and left.

Once the door had closed behind him, he allowed himself to stop and lean against the wall, pressing his forehead to the cool metal of the bulkhead.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, struggling to control the urge to cry, which caused his eyes to burn and his throat to close up. "Oh, God, what have I done?"

After a moment, Malcolm wiped at his damp eyes with the palms of his hands, straightened his shoulders and headed off down the corridor. He was due on duty in a few minutes. With any luck, he would be able to bury himself in the phase cannon bay and work undisturbed for most of the day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Water. Waist-deep and rising. The lights in the shuttle flicker once, twice, and then go out completely, leaving him in near-total dark. He lunges about awkwardly in the ice-cold water, which now reaches nearly to his shoulders, searching for the hatch. His fingers close on cloth, then flesh. He pulls. In the dim light filtering in through the windows he sees the outline of T'Pol's face, pale and unmoving. He shakes her and screams her name, to no effect. Struggling to hold her face out of the water, he continues his desperate search for the hatch.

His searching fingers touch a rounded metal handle. The manual release for the hatch. He claws at it clumsily, but his cold-numbed hands cannot force it to open.

The water closes in over his head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Almost a week later. . .

When the hatch to the phase cannon assembly bay opened, Malcolm startled, dropped his spanner, and nearly banged his head on the top of the access tube he was lying half-in.

"Sorry, didn't mean to surprise you," said Trip's cheerful voice. There was a thump and a toolbox appeared on the floor in Malcolm's field of vision. He wiggled his way out of the access tube and squinted up at the engineer.

"You didn't have to come. Hess could have done this job."

"I hadn't seen you in a while, so I thought I'd come on down myself. So what's the job? Hess just said something about upgrades."

"I'm installing the new targeting scopes." Malcolm used his heels to push his upper body back inside the access tube and picked up his spanner.

"Great. What do you want me to do?"

"For starters, you can watch the control panel and tell me if the number is within plus or minus .3."

"Easy enough. You're at +.2."

"Good." Malcolm adjusted the scope slightly to the left and held the spanner down by his knee. "I need a microdriver."

Trip's hand took the spanner. "What size?"

"Two millimeters."

A few seconds later, the tool was pressed into his palm. Malcolm began the delicate process of installing the tiny titanium screws which held the assembly in place.

"So, how are things going?" Trip asked.

"Fine, except this access tube was made for someone the size of an 8 year old girl."

"I'm talking about you and T'Pol."

"Oh. They're not."

"They're not what?"

"You asked how things are going. They're not--going."

"They're not?"

"No. Are you watching the monitor?"

"Yes. +.4."

"Damn. I need that spanner back." Malcolm tucked the tiny screws into his palm and reached out blindly for the tool.

Trip held it just out of reach. "Did you break up?"

"Not exactly."

"Then what?" The spanner continued to hover just out of reach. Malcolm finally squirmed far enough out of the tube to see Trip's face.

"I became emotional. She ordered me out. She hasn't spoken to me since."

Trip pushed the spanner into Malcolm's hand. "Geez, Malcolm. I'm sorry. When was this?"

Malcolm pushed himself back into the tube. "Nearly a week ago," he said while adjusting the scope slightly to the left again. "She rearranged our schedules so we're not on duty at the same time."

"Ooh, cold. Have you tried talking to her?"

"No, I'll let her make the first move. What does it read now?"

"-.2."

"Better." Malcolm pried one tiny screw from his palm and fitted it into the hole.

"This is T'Pol we're talking about here, right? She's never gonna make the first move."

Malcolm applied the driver to the screw and zipped it into place. "I don't want to push her. I--I think I frightened her."

"How? By getting emotional?" Trip asked. "You're at -.5, by the way."

"Bloody hell." Malcolm zipped out the screw he had just put in place and adjust the scope back slightly to the right. "I hit something. A pillow, I think. Is that better?"

"Yep. -.2."

"Good." Malcolm replaced the tiny screw and reached for the second.

"What got you so het up?"

"It's complicated."

"You're back to +.6. What's so complicated? "

"She wants to raise the child on Earth. Oh, shit," Malcolm swore as he dropped the six remaining screws while trying to pick up the spanner.

"Why don't you let me get in there, Malcolm? I do this sort of thing all day long."

"Fine with me." Malcolm pushed his way out in disgust. "There are six tiny screws in there someplace. I dropped them." He stood and dusted himself off while Trip lay down on his back and slid into the tube. "It's still at +.6. It needs to be adjusted to the right."

"Nothing's gonna explode in here, is it? You haven't wired the scope into the main engines?"

"I've learned my lesson on that."

Trip chuckled. There was the slight humming sound of the spanner in operation, and the numbers dropped to precisely zero. "Is that better?"

"Right on the nose."

"Great. So, Earth, huh? I'm surprised. I'da thought she'd want to go back to Vulcan."

"She doesn't think he'll be accepted because he isn't full Vulcan."

The microdriver buzzed briefly. Malcolm watched the monitor, but the number stayed exactly at zero. "Well, she's got a point there," Trip's voice echoed from inside the tube. "The Vulcans have a habit of looking down their noses at everyone who doesn't measure up to their standards. Earth is probably a much better bet." The driver buzzed again, and again the monitor read zero.

"He won't fit in. He'll be a victim of every bully in the schoolyard."

"Like you were?" Trip asked over another brief burst from the driver. "How's the monitor?"

"Still pegged at zero. Why do you think I learned self-defense?"

"Maybe he'll do the same. Is that all you were fighting about?"

"Well, it was also about the name she chose."

The driver buzzed again, twice in quick succession. "She picked a name? What is it?"

"Aidan," Malcolm said flatly.

"Really?" There was one more burst from the driver, then Trip squirmed out of the tube. "That's a nice name. What, you don't like it?"

"It's Irish!! I might as well name him Seamus, or--or Connor, for pity's sake!"

"Hey, Connor is my nephew's name!" Trip sat back on his heels with a grin, tools dangling loosely from his hands.

Malcolm scowled. "It's different for you, you don't have the history."

"Huh?"

"I thought you were a student of history, Commander. There have been hundreds of years of conflict between the British and the Irish."

"So?" Trip wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead. "Dang, it's hot in there."

Malcolm handed him a shop rag. "So?!"

Trip's grin widened at his outraged intonation. "Yeah. Like you said, it's history. Water under the bridge. You don't strike me as the prejudiced type, Malcolm. Why should you let ancient history affect what name you give your kid?"

Malcolm shook his head. "I'm not prejudiced, but if I bring home a half- Vulcan child with an Irish name, my father will turn him out on his pointy ear."

"Oh, I get it now. This is about your father."

Malcolm turned his back on Trip, back to the monitor, to begin the process of setting up the controls for the scope. "It's not just about him," he said quietly.

"Yes, it is. He's the one with the prejudices, not you. I thought that kind of thinking was history. What is he, some kind of purebred or something?"

Malcolm continued to stare at the scope and said nothing.

"He is, isn't he! My God, I thought those kind of people didn't exist anymore."

Malcolm sighed. "My great-grandfather, my father's grandfather, was Irish. My father was ready to write him out of the family tree. Do you have any idea how many times I've heard over the years about how the glorious British conquered the world? For some reason, he especially hates the Irish."

"Why do you care so much what he thinks?"

"It's natural for a son to want his father's approval," Malcolm replied in a neutral voice.

"What makes you think you're ever going to get it?"

Malcolm's fingers froze on the controls. "I don't understand."

"Look, Malcolm, from what I've heard, your father is an arrogant prick who has tried to control your life from day one. Do you really think that he'll ever accept T'Pol, or your child, no matter what his name is?"

Shoulders dropping, Malcolm said, "You mean if I gave him a good English name like Simon or Nigel, would he welcome us with open arms? No, likely not."

"Then his opinion isn't worth shit. Nothing you do is gonna change him, so why don't you just give up?"

Malcolm turned to face Trip. "You're suggesting that I should accept that my father will never approve of me?" he asked in a voice made rough by emotion.

Trip's expression softened. "Just don't let it control your life. Look, you care about T'Pol, right?"

"Yes, of course. I--I love her."

"And you want to stay with her, raise this kid with her."

"Yes, absolutely."

"Then why should you let a prejudiced bastard like your father ruin it for you? You've got a good thing here, Malcolm. Don't mess it up." Trip's gentle expression took the sting out of his words, but they still went directly to Malcolm's heart.

"You're right," he said with a sigh. "Even though he's thousands of kilometers away, my father is still controlling my life."

Trip leaned back against the phase cannon housing. "Only because you let him. You're a grown man, you should be making your own decisions."

Malcolm scoffed. "Easier said than done. Stuart Reed has a way of keeping you under his thumb."

"Yeah, but like you said, he's thousands of kilometers away. What's he gonna do, send you a nasty letter?"

"You don't understand, Trip. You grew up in this cozy little womblike environment, where everyone loved you, and nothing bad ever happened to you. My life wasn't like that."

Trip pushed himself off the housing and began picking up tools. "My life wasn't exactly a fairy tale either, Malcolm. You've never been around my dad when he was drinkin'."

Malcolm blinked in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"Let's just say he was a mean drunk. My brother and I learned pretty quick to stay out of his way."

"I didn't know that."

"Well, now ya do."

"Do you ever worry that--that you'll repeat the mistakes your parents made? That you'll turn out to be just like everything you despise about them?"

Trip placed the tools carefully into the kit and stood. "I try not to think about it. Besides, my dad wasn't that bad, only when he was drinking, and that wasn't all that often."

"I'm terrified that I'll treat my son the same way my father treated me. I know I have the potential to be every bit as much the bastard that my father is."

"That's not gonna happen."

"How do you know? I'm so much like him it scares me."

"You're not him, Malcolm. You've already shown that in a lot of ways."

"But I could become him. When I yelled at T'Pol, I could feel this anger building inside me. I wanted to hit something. When she said she thought I might harm her, I went cold all over. I never want to hurt her, or my child.

"I know you wouldn't." Trip closed his toolbox and picked it up. "I gotta get back. Look, I'm gonna be working with T'Pol on some engineering upgrades later today. You want me to talk to her?"

"I'd prefer you stay out of it. I don't want to push her farther away. If she comes back, I want it to be her own decision, not because I pressured her."

"It's your call. But I'm telling ya, you gotta make the move. She's not gonna do anything."

"I heard you the first time. I'll see you later, Commander."

"See ya." Trip gave a little wave as he opened the hatch, and then he was gone.

Malcolm sat down on the floor and rested his forehead on the heels of his hands, elbows on his knees. What Trip had said did make sense on one level, but Malcolm wasn't entirely convinced that Trip knew him well enough to make a blanket statement like that. How could Trip know for sure that Malcolm wasn't capable of harming the ones he loved, when Malcolm didn't even know it himself?

With a deep sigh, he pushed himself up off the floor and turned back to the control panel. He decided he would give T'Pol one more day, then he'd go to her and apologize. If he were lucky, she'd forgive him and let him have another chance.

++

Trip was shoulder-deep in an access port when T'Pol showed up in engineering, right on time as usual. She climbed the stairs to the upper level, ignoring his hastily offered hand, and wrinkled her nose slightly at the tools and bits of wiring scattered around the narrow walkway.

"Have you not completed the upgrades?"

"I'm just finishin' up. You wanna see?"

"If the upgrades are not completed, what is there to see?"

"Plenty. Just let me connect this last relay." Trip reached inside the access port and finished the final connection while T'Pol folded her hands on her bulging belly and watched him patiently with the usual blank expression on her face. "There. All done."

He wiped his hands on his pants, and then finished the job with a shop rag she handed him gingerly, like it might contaminate her.

"The captain claims this upgrade will allow us to exceed warp 5.2."

"That's what we're hopin' for." Trip edged around her on the narrow walkway and headed for the control panel. "This new antimatter injection booster should give us just the jump we need."

"Hmm." T'Pol made a non-committal noise. She pulled her tricorder from her belt, which had been low-slung to pass under her greatly expanded abdomen, and began to scan the new installation. "Energy flow is .3 microns above optimal levels."

"Really?" He checked the monitor with a frown. "That's within acceptable parameters. I've got my eye on it."

T'Pol returned her scanner to her belt. "Show me the modifications."

"Just a second." Trip programmed the computer to beep if the energy flow passed out of the acceptable range, and moved back down the walkway toward her. "We rerouted the circuitry here, and the antimatter injection booster is here." Trip pointed to the oblong chunk of metal, no longer than his forearm, which would increase the capacity of the warp engine for short bursts. "It's kinda like turbo. We're almost ready to activate it."

"You built this device?"

"Well, Starfleet sent the specs, but yeah, we built it."

"I would like to examine the device before it is activated."

"Suit yourself." He backed up against the railing and folded his arms while she worked, grinning slightly as she turned sideways on the walkway to avoid bumping the bulkhead with her stomach.

Finally, he couldn't contain himself any longer. "So, uh, Malcolm says you two are having some problems."

"There is no problem," T'Pol said without lifting her head from her tricorder.

"He said he got mad and you booted him out."

"I did not kick him. I asked him to leave."

"That's what I meant. So, are you gonna let him back in?" he asked casually.

"I do not know. I do not believe he is ready for fatherhood. The differential has increased to .4 microns."

"Still within specs. You know he'd never hurt you, right?"

"It is impossible to know that for certain.

"Come on, T'Pol. You know Malcolm, he likes blowin' stuff up, but he's actually a marshmallow in the inside."

T'Pol stopped scanning and turned to face Trip. "I am aware of his temperament. His emotional control is on the whole remarkable for a human. It is one of the attributes that first attracted me to him."

Trip grinned. "Then are you gonna forgive him?"

"He has not requested my forgiveness."

"He's waiting for you to make the first move."

"Indeed?" T'Pol returned to her work, head bent over the tricorder, which nearly rested on her stomach.

"Look, you gotta understand, that argument? It was all about his father."

"He did not mention his father."

"He did to me. You don't know how messed up his family is."

T'Pol took another step to her right, farther away from Trip. "Actually, Commander, I am well aware of Malcolm's relationship with his family, or rather his lack of such a relationship. I do not understand what bearing that has on his inability to keep his temper."

"His dad is just a complete jerk, that's all, and when you were talking about raising the kid on Earth, he started thinking about his son being treated the way he was, and it got him all worked up."

"Why is Malcolm not telling me this himself? Are you his messenger now?"

'Whoa, sarcasm,' Trip thought in surprise. 'I thought Vulcans were genetically incapable of it.' "It's not like that. In fact, he wanted me to stay out of it."

"You would do well to heed his advice."

"Look, T'Pol, why do you wanna go to Earth anyway? Don't you wanna be near your family?

"My parents do not wish me to return to Vulcan."

"Oh, geez, I didn't know that. Did you tell Malcolm?"

"The appropriate occasion did not present itself."

"You mean you chickened out."

T'Pol abruptly changed the subject. "The differential has increased to .5 microns."

Trip pulled out his scanner, which now also displayed the increase in differential, and scowled at it in irritation. At that moment the computer interface began to chime in warning. "All right, fine," Trip said in disgust as he crossed to the control panel. "I'll mind my own business." He punched the control to silence the alarm. "Just one last thing: he loves you, T'Pol, with all his heart, and that's a rare thing for Malcolm. Don't throw away something precious."

T'Pol nodded soberly. "I will consider your counsel, Commander."

"Good." Trip turned his attention to the controls, which were blinking red and amber. He glared at them, and tapped in the sequence to vent excess plasma, hoping that would fix the problem. The lights continued to blink insistently, and now the temperature monitor was beginning to rise.

"Is there a problem, Commander?" came T'Pol's calm voice. She had moved further down the walkway, scanner moving back and forth, trying to find the source of the differential.

"Shouldn't be. The booster's not even on-line yet."

Trip called up the schematics for the booster, and his eyes went immediately to a flashing red section located about ten meters from the interface, a section, he realized, which was directly in front of where T'Pol was standing.

"T'Pol, watch ou--" Suddenly, his voice was drowned out by the roar of a massive explosion. He caught a flash of T'Pol's face, eyes wide with surprise, and then the force of the blast flung her up and back, like a rag doll, over the flimsy guardrail which was the only barrier between her and a ten meter drop to the deck below.

Trip tried to force his way toward her position, but a wave of superheated air rushed at him, driving him backwards, slamming his back into the guardrail. He threw his forearms up in front of his face just as a wave of debris followed the heat, knifing through his skin like thousands of tiny needlepricks. A white-hot fragment of metal slipped through the protective shield of his arms and sliced into his left cheek just centimeters below his eye.

He was barely aware of the pain through his concern for T'Pol. She had been tossed backwards, over the railing, and he could no longer see her through the clouds of smoke that had followed the explosion.

"T'Pol!!" he screamed, frantically. He breathed in a lungful of smoke, which caused his throat and chest to constrict painfully. Coughing and choking, mouth and nose buried in the crook of his elbow, he fought his way to the access ladder and slid down, slipping and scrambling the last half- meter, landing awkwardly on his feet on the deck.

Even before he was sure of his footing, he was stumbling blindly through the smoke toward the place where she must have landed. The ventilators kicked in with a loud, throbbing hum, but the air did not immediately clear.

His foot connected with something soft on the floor and he dropped to his knees. The smoke cleared enough for him to make out T'Pol's motionless form, stretched out on her back, with a large chunk of smoldering metal debris lying across her legs, pinning her to the deck. A pool of green- black blood surrounded her head and upper body, and as the air continued to clear Trip could see more blood leaking from her ears and spurting bright green from a deep gash in her shoulder. Her eyes were closed, but they fluttered open when he touched her.

"Commander . . ." she said, very weakly.

"You're all right. You're gonna be all right. Just lay still." Trip looked around frantically for help, and spotted a vague figure appearing through the smoke, one arm up over his face, coughing. Rostov!

"Mike, call Phlox!" Trip screamed.

"Yes, sir!" The figure vanished, and Trip returned his attention to T'Pol. She was bleeding heavily from the wound on her shoulder, so he pressed both hands to the injury in an attempt to staunch the flow of bright green fluid. She shifted feebly under his hands, eyes flickering open and closed, lips moving ineffectually.

"Lie still," Trip soothed. "You're going to be fine."

She spoke, her voice so faint that Trip leaned in to catch the words. "Tell Malcolm--tell Malcolm I love him. . ."

"No!! No!" Trip choked out desperately. "You'll tell him yourself!"

Her hand wafted up and gently touched his bloody cheek. "Trip . . . please . . .Tell him I am sorry . . ."

Trip released the pressure on her shoulder long enough to drag an arm across his stinging eyes. "Yes. I'll--I'll tell him."

She nodded, almost imperceptibly, and her hand drifted back down to rest beside her swollen belly. Her eyes fluttered shut again. Trip could just barely make out the minute rise and fall of her chest that indicated she still breathed. Goddammit, where's the doctor? Trip thought anxiously as he continued to apply pressure to T'Pol's shoulder, with brilliant emerald blood oozing through his fingers.

++

Continued soon . . . "There are no happy endings. There are no happy endings. There are no happy endings . . ."