++

A/N: I seem to have confused my readers with the whole argument over the name. Sorry. Just a note of explanation (although personally I think that if you have to explain your writing then it probably wasn't very good): First of all, I wanted them to have something stupid to argue about, and secondly, I wanted to emphasize that even though his dad is a prejudiced bastard, Malcolm still really wants to please him, and is desperate to make his little "family" acceptable to him. I never meant to insinuate that Malcolm was prejudiced. He is just thinking about what his father would say.

As a side note, I hope I don't offend anyone, and I'm not trying to start a debate, but I was in Northern Ireland a few years ago during "Marching season" (the month of July), and prejudice and hatred do still exist there. It may not run as deep as what name you give your child, but some people still do very strongly about it. I'm sure you could say the same thing about many places in America as well.

Anyway, it's not all that important to the story. Please keep reading! And if you review, I'd much rather hear about how you liked the content of this chapter, not how you feel about racism!

++

Chapter 5: Saying goodbye to a statue

~~~~~~~~~

Water. A strong current pulls at him, drags him downstream. He fights it desperately. He has to get to her. She is drowning.

He spots her, a long way off. He can only see the top of her head bobbing up and down on the waves. He kicks and strokes hard against the current, but can get no closer. He has to reach her. She needs him.

He stretches out his hand, and grabs a handful of her sleeve. She sinks beneath the surface. The fabric slips between his fingers and out of his grasp. She is gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

Trip heard the hatch to engineering open and looked up, hoping to see the doctor arriving with a medical team. Instead, Malcolm appeared through the smoke, dressed in faded sweatpants and half-buttoned shirt, hair mussed, eyes wide, face white with shock. He dropped to his knees at T'Pol's side and looked her over slowly, with confusion in his eyes.

"What happened?" he asked slowly, turning his bewildered expression on Trip.

"There was an accident. Phlox is on his way. Did Rostov call you?"

Malcolm shook his head. "What about this debris? Shouldn't we move it?"

"No, we should wait for the doctor."

Malcolm looked down at T'Pol again, uncertainty mixed with fear in his eyes. He reached out a hand toward the still figure, but didn't touch her. "T'Pol?" he said softly. She didn't stir, but Trip could still see the tiny movement of her chest as she drew yet another faltering breath.

"Phlox can fix it, Malcolm," Trip said quietly. "It'll be all right."

"The baby . . ." Malcolm whispered, his uncomprehending eyes traveling to T'Pol's belly.

"I--I don't know."

At the sound of boots and voices coming from the corridor, Trip's head snapped up. The doctor's voice, calm as ever, called, "Where are you?"

"Over here!" Trip called back in considerable relief. Phlox's sturdy figure, flanked by Cutler and another medic whose name Trip couldn't recall, appeared through the haze. Phlox had his bag and Cutler and the other medic were pushing a wheeled stretcher, bumping along on the uneven decking.

Phlox and Cutler both dropped to their knees on either side of T'Pol. Malcolm backed out of the way to give them room to work, but Trip stayed where he was, his hands still pressed firmly to the open wound on T'Pol's shoulder.

Cutler had a medical scanner in her hands, head bent over the device with hair falling into her eyes. "Pulse 170, BP 90 over 60 and falling, Doctor. She's lost a considerable amount of blood."

"And the fetus?"

"Pulse 210."

Trip let out the breath he had been holding when he realized that Cutler's words meant that the baby was still alive.

"All right, Ensign Cutler, start an I.V. Lieutenant Reed, you and Ensign Farris get ready to remove this debris. No, stay where you are, Commander." Phlox directed that last comment at Trip, who had shifted his weight in anticipation of helping. "Keep pressure on that wound."

Malcolm hadn't moved, his eyes locked on T'Pol's still face, hands hanging at his side.

"Lieutenant," Phlox called, a little more sharply, and Malcolm startled. "Lieutenant, help Ensign Farris move the debris." The doctor motioned toward the younger man, who was already in position by T'Pol's knee.

Malcolm nodded crisply and positioned himself on the other side of the chunk of debris, near T'Pol's waist, and together the two men lifted the piece of twisted, smoldering metal up and clear of the fallen Vulcan.

Immediately bright green blood began to spurt from T'Pol's left thigh, where jagged white bone protruded through skin and fabric. Phlox calmly applied pressure to the wound with a gloved hand.

"Pulse 210, BP 70 over 50, continuing to fall. Fetal pulse 115," Cutler reported with a slight edge to her previously calm voice.

"Stretcher," Phlox ordered. Farris scrambled around the group to lower the stretcher into position, then he crouched by T'Pol's feet to wait for the doctor's next orders.

"I.V. saline wide open, Ensign Cutler. Lieutenant Reed, please lift her shoulders, Farris lift her feet, on my count."

Malcolm, who appeared to have recovered from his initial shock at least enough to follow orders, slipped his arms under T'Pol's shoulders and looked up at the doctor.

"One, two. . . three." Malcolm and Farris lifted together, and the entire group moved over to the stretcher, with Trip and Phlox continuing to apply pressure. Trip looked back at the spot they had just vacated, and his stomach twisted in fear at the enormous pool of dark green blood staining the deck. A swirl of red was mixed in with the green, and Trip realized for the first time that he was bleeding too. He had been aware of a sticky wetness on his left cheek, but hadn't paused to wonder what it might be.

"Pulse 220, BP 60 over 35, still falling. Fetal pulse 90," came Cutler's anxious voice. She raised the I.V. bag up over her head, Malcolm and Farris took up positions at the front and back of the stretcher, and they all took off at a jog toward sickbay, trailing drops of ruby red and a stream of emerald green behind them.

When they reached sickbay, Phlox ordered Farris to step in behind Trip and apply pressure to the wound on T'Pol's shoulder. Trip stepped back, uncertainly, aware of his cramping triceps, while Cutler attempted to take Malcolm's place at the back of the stretcher.

"I want to go with you," Malcolm said calmly.

"Stay here, Lieutenant. I can't treat her effectively if you are in the way."

"I want to come," Malcolm repeated, voice taking on an edge of panic.

"I still might be able to save T'Pol and the baby. Don't jeopardize that, Malcolm."

As Malcolm still showed no signs of backing down, Trip wrapped his arms around the smaller man's waist and dragged him back out of the way. The medical team disappeared with T'Pol into the surgical bay.

As soon as the doors closed behind them, Trip could feel the muscles in Malcolm's back and shoulders stiffen against him. He loosened his grip and Malcolm pulled away, fiercely, with a cry of frustration and pain. He flopped down into a chair with his back to Trip and leaned forward, supporting his forehead on the heels of his hands.

Now that the crisis was over, the emotions that Trip had been holding at bay washed over him and he began to shiver uncontrollably. He lifted one trembling hand and saw that it was covered in dark green blood. Clasping his hands together to still them, Trip crossed to the sink and began to clean up, mechanically, not noticing or caring when the water reached scalding temperatures.

++

Archer entered sickbay at a run, but as soon as he passed through the doors he skidded to a halt. The doctor was nowhere in evidence, and neither was T'Pol. Rostov had just said there was an accident and that T'Pol was injured, so Archer had no idea how serious it might be.

Trip and Malcolm sat side by side in chairs on the other side of sickbay, in identical postures with their elbows resting on knees and heads in hands. Malcolm didn't move when the doors opened, but Trip's head came up, giving the captain a good look at his bruised and blood-smeared face.

Archer crossed to Trip. He could see that the front of the engineer's uniform was soaked with a green liquid. "What happened?"

The engineer shook his head. "Accident. I don't know," he said slowly, as if it were a great effort to even form the words.

"T'Pol?"

"Surgery."

Archer shot a glance at Malcolm, who was staring down at his green-smeared hands, looking pale and dazed. "How bad is it?"

Trip shook his head again. "Bad. She--she lost a lot of blood."

Archer sat down next to Trip. "What caused the accident? Could it have been sabotage?" he asked quietly.

Trip's lip began to tremble, just enough for Archer to notice, and his eyes filled up. "I don't know, Cap'n. Everything was fine, and then--and then. . . I don't know." Trip's voice cracked and he lowered his head again, heels of his hands pressed against his eyes.

Archer put his hand on Trip's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Trip," he said quietly. Malcolm still hadn't moved.

"Let's get you cleaned up," Archer said to Trip, gesturing toward his bloody cheek and the scratches criss-crossing his forearms, but Trip shook his head mutely.

At that moment, the doors to the surgery bay opened, and Cutler hurried out pushing a small cart, an isolette, which was enclosed on the top and sides with clear plexiglass. She opened the side of the plexiglass and began hooking up tubes and wires. Archer got a brief glimpse of a tiny foot, looking very still and dark against the white of the isolette. A green fluid stained the sheet and the front of Cutler's uniform, and after a moment Archer realized it was T'Pol's blood.

Malcolm's head had come up, and he was staring at the isolette with a lost expression on his face. Cutler flipped a switch, and the monitor began to howl, a shrill, monotone shriek. She silenced the alarm and bent over the baby again, hands moving quickly. Archer wanted to go over and offer to help, but there was nothing he could do. He had no training, no expertise, and would only be in the way.

Suddenly Malcolm rocked back in his chair, drew his knees in and flung his arms up over his head, and began to scream frantically, "No, no, NO!!!" and then "T'POL!! T'POL!!!!" Trip, who was seated closest to him, wrapped his arms around Malcolm's quivering shoulders, but the man did not even acknowledge his presence.

After a moment, Malcolm's screams quieted, although he stayed curled up in a ball with his arms over his head, and Archer became aware of another sound, a thin wail coming from the isolette. The monitor began to beep in a steady rhythm. He turned his head to look, and the tiny foot, which had been so still and dark, had turned pink and was kicking wildly.

Cutler closed the side of the isolette and moved to adjust the controls at one end of the device, giving Archer a better look at the baby. Its arms and legs were drawn up near its diminutive body, which was splotched from head to toe with green and a whitish waxy substance. All four matchstick- thin limbs twitched and jerked spasmodically. Thick, dark hair was plastered to its head, its eyes were scrunched shut and its mouth was open in full cry, showing a tiny pink tongue and toothless gums. The entire baby could have fit in Archer's two hands, with room to spare.

Malcolm had leaned forward in his chair, and Trip moved with him, arm still wrapped around Malcolm's shoulders. With a sudden, fitful movement, Malcolm pushed Trip's arm away and returned to his fetal position in the chair. Trip leaned his elbows on his knees and watched Malcolm with a fearful, guilt-stricken expression on his bloody face, but Malcolm was too wrapped up in his grief to notice.

Not knowing what else to do, Archer pushed himself out of his chair and crossed the room to Cutler and the baby. Cutler nodded somberly at him, but continued her work without speaking.

Archer jammed his hands in his pockets and leaned forward to get a closer look at the tiny infant, which was still screaming out its thin, indignant wail. The eyes opened briefly and Archer caught a glimpse of blue before they closed again. Through the matted black hair he could just make out the delicate points on the tips of the ears.

Archer laid the tips of his fingers gently against the hard plexiglass side of the isolette, feeling the warmth from within. "Welcome to Enterprise, little one," he said softly.

++

When the doors to the surgical bay slid open again, emitting an exhausted- looking Phlox, Malcolm remained curled up in his chair, arms over his head. He didn't care what Phlox had to say. She was gone, he knew that already, and that was all he needed to know.

He was vaguely aware of Phlox speaking softly to the captain, while pulling off gloves stained green with her blood, and then Archer put his hands over his face, briefly, and wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. When both men turned his direction, Malcolm drew himself in more tightly, not wanting their scrutiny, their pity. He was aware of Trip's presence next to him, aware that Trip was crying too, while he, Malcolm, remained dry-eyed.

He heard the captain say, "I think he already knows," as Phlox began to walk toward him. Malcolm heaved himself out of the chair and met him halfway, not wanting to hear the words that would confirm what he knew in his very soul.

"Lieutenant--" Phlox began, but Malcolm interrupted him.

"I want to see her."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"I don't care. I want to see her," Malcolm repeated stubbornly. He could sense Trip's halting presence behind his left shoulder.

The doctor nodded. "Very well. I need to see to the infant. Commander, if you'll take a seat on a biobed, I'll have Ensign Farris tend to your wounds."

Malcolm felt Trip's hand on his shoulder, an unwelcome intrusion into his private grief. "I'm--I'm going with Malcolm," Trip said in a voice that cracked and then steadied.

Phlox stared at the two of them appraisingly for a moment, then nodded again. "Your injuries aren't serious. Go ahead."

The doctor moved off toward the isolette, and Malcolm stood staring at the doors to the surgical bay, blank and closed off like T'Pol's face had been, when he yelled at her, the last time they had spoken. He felt his resolve desert him, and his knees weakened and threatened to give out on him.

Trip's hand tightened on his shoulder. "I'm right behind you," he said softly into Malcolm's ear. "I'm right here."

Malcolm straightened, ashamed at his weakness. What would T'Pol have thought if she could see him, knees turned to jelly, giving up at just the moment when he should have been strong? By sheer force of his will he called up the meditation rituals T'Pol had taught him, and after a moment he felt strength return to his quivering muscles. A thick blanket of unnatural silence descended around him.

With eyes open and back straight, Malcolm stepped forward and touched the control panel and the doors slid open. Farris, who had apparently remained behind to clean up, slipped out past them with a stricken expression on his face.

T'Pol lay motionless on the surgical table, covered to the neck with a clean, white sheet. The dark green blood was gone from her face, although traces were still visible in the folds of her ears. Malcolm could see from the outline of her body under the sheet that her hands were folded across her newly flattened belly. She looked as if she were carved from stone, a statue.

Malcolm stood motionless, staring at her still form. From behind him, snatches of Trip's muffled sobs and sporadic sniffles broke through his self-imposed blanket of silence. In front of him lay the woman he loved, never to breathe again, and all around him swirled her spicy scent. And in the center of it all, Malcolm stood as if he too were carved from stone, not moving, not feeling anything.

Trip moved so he was standing next to Malcolm, hands swiping the wetness from his bloody face. "She wanted me to--" Trip broke off, overcome by a fresh spate of tears. He wiped his eyes again and continued. "She wanted me to tell you she loved you."

"I loved her too," Malcolm said flatly. "She was the only one I ever truly loved. I wanted to spend my life with her. Her and our child. And now . . ." he trailed off, unwilling to say the words, unwilling to let go of the eerie calm that surrounded him like a protective bubble.

They stood for a moment, side-by-side, Malcolm silent and motionless, Trip shivering and brushing away the tears with his palm as they slipped off his chin.

After a few moments, Malcolm heard the doors open, but he didn't turn around. "Lieutenant?" said Cutler's quiet voice. "The doctor says you can see the baby now."

Malcolm shook his head wordlessly. He didn't want to see the baby. He couldn't face it, couldn't open his heart one centimeter for fear that the protective bubble might pop and his emotions would be unleashed. He had to remain in the bubble; he was safe there.

Trip took him firmly by the elbow and steered him toward the door, and Malcolm didn't resist, but let himself be led out of the surgical bay to the isolette. A chair appeared behind him and he sat. He had yet to look in the isolette.

He could hear Archer's quiet voice, talking to Hoshi and Travis on the other side of sickbay, and then Phlox led Trip away. Malcolm could still hear his stifled sobs, overlaid with the soothing sounds of the doctor's voice as he began his work.

Malcolm closed his eyes and drew the calm in around him, a cloak of silence, blocking out the noise of sickbay in action. When he felt ready, he opened his eyes and looked at his son.

The tiny baby was quiet now, dressed only in a diaper, his skin clean and pink. His eyes were open, and Malcolm stared into them disbelievingly. Blue. His son's eyes were blue.

++

Archer left Hoshi and Travis sitting in chairs and crossed sickbay to stand beside Malcolm, who was leaned forward with his forehead resting against the plexiglass, locked in silent eye contact with the baby. Archer slipped his hand onto Malcolm's shoulder, but the man didn't move.

After a moment, Malcolm said quietly, with a note of awe in his voice, "His eyes are blue."

"I noticed that."

"Vulcan infants always have brown eyes, even at birth."

Archer had to smile at that, despite the circumstances. "He has your eyes."

Malcolm continued to stare into the baby's eyes. "Yes."

"What will you name him?"

"Aidan."

"Aidan. I like it. Aidan Reed."

"It's what she wanted."

Archer squeezed Malcolm's shoulder with a sad smile. "Good."

Cutler bustled over and checked the monitor "Lieutenant? Would you like to hold the baby?" she asked when she had finished adjusting the controls.

Malcolm finally broke the eye contact and looked up at her in obvious surprise. "Won't that hurt him?"

Cutler shook her head. "Touch is good for babies."

Malcolm eyed the numerous tubes and wires coming from the isolette dubiously. "I don't think I should."

Archer looked around sickbay and saw that the doctor was putting away his tools and appeared to be finished working on Trip, who was pulling on a clean scrubs pants and top to replace his blood-soaked uniform. Trip was facing away from Archer, and before he pulled the shirt down Archer caught a glimpse of a large purple bruise running across the small of his back just above the waistband of his pants. His hands were bandaged, and when he turned around Archer could see that he had another bruise under a line of neat stitches along his left cheekbone.

"All right, everybody. Let's clear out of here," Archer said loudly enough to carry to Hoshi and Travis, who were still sitting in chairs across sickbay. He kept his hand on Malcolm's shoulder, holding him gently but firmly in his chair. "The baby needs to rest. Malcolm, we'll see you in the morning."

"Yes, Captain."

"And hold that baby, Malcolm," Archer added warmly. "Not an order, just a suggestion."

Malcolm turned back to stare at the baby again, and Archer took that as his cue to leave. On the way out the door, he wrapped his arm around Trip, who was still crying softly, and gave him a reassuring squeeze.

"I'm goin' back to engineering," Trip said in a ragged voice.

"You're injured. Go to bed."

Trip shook his head stubbornly. "I gotta find out what caused that explosion, Captain. What if it was sabotage? I gotta know."

Archer sighed, knowing that even if Trip went back to his quarters, he wouldn't sleep anyway. "All right. I have some calls to make. I'll join you in a couple of hours."

++

After everyone else left, Malcolm retreated into his protective bubble. He leaned his forehead against the plexiglass side and continued to stare at his son, noticing for the first time the delicate points on the ears that protruded through his dark hair.

Phlox approached, rubbing his hands. "So, Lieutenant, are you ready to hold the baby?"

"I don't want to hurt him," Malcolm said uncertainly.

"Nonsense. Babies need touch. Ensign Farris, bring him a more comfortable chair."

Before Malcolm could make any further protest, Cutler was urging him to stand. She led him to the sink and helped him sanitize his hands, and when he returned his hard plastic chair had been replaced with a well-padded recliner. He sat perched on the edge of the seat, a knot of fear growing in his chest, threatening to burst his bubble of calm.

Phlox had the side of the isolette open and was removing some of the wires that were attached to the baby's arms and legs. Cutler gently pushed Malcolm back in the chair, and he leaned awkwardly against the cushioned backrest.

"Just relax, Lieutenant. Why don't you open your shirt? Skin-to-skin contact is best."

Malcolm obeyed numbly, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. When Phlox gently placed the baby stomach-down on his bare chest, Malcolm gasped aloud. "He's so warm."

"Yes, Vulcan body temperature is several degrees above human average."

"Oh, yes, of course. I remember . . ."

Cutler draped a soft blanket over the two of them, leaving only the baby's face exposed. "Are you comfortable?"

"Yes, thank you."

"We'll be cleaning up the surgical bay," Phlox said. "Let us know if you need anything."

"How long can I hold him?"

"As long as you like." Phlox's hand rested for a moment on the infant's dark head, and then he and Cutler moved off, lowering the lights behind them.

The baby snuggled in closer, his head resting on Malcolm's shoulder. His body felt tiny and fragile, his weight almost imperceptible on Malcolm's chest. The movements of the tiny ribcage were so slight that Malcolm feared he had stopped breathing. He laid his hand lightly, awkwardly, on the baby's back and could feel a slight, rhythmic motion, up and down, up and down. As long as I can feel him breathing, Malcolm thought, I know he's still alive.

Despite his efforts to remain vigilant, the comfortable chair and the quiet of a darkened sickbay soon lulled Malcolm into an uneasy sleep.

++

Trip flung open the hatch to Engineering and froze in place at the flurry of activity within. Several junior crewmen were pushing brooms and mops, while more were on their hands and knees scrubbing at the floor with brushes or rags. Hess flew by him carrying a sizeable chunk of twisted metal that had once been part of an access panel.

Trip caught Hess's arm, roughly. "What's going on here?"

"Commander! Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." He raised his voice slightly. "What are you doing?"

"We're cleaning up, sir."

"Well, stop it!!" He raised his voice to a shout. "Everybody stop!!" All around him crewmembers froze, every face turned toward him with identical frightened expressions. "What the hell are you people doing?!" he continued to shout, ignoring the wide eyes and open mouths of his crew. "What's wrong with you?!"

"Sir, there was blood. . ." Hess began timidly.

"We have to investigate what happened!" he yelled in her face. "It might have been sabotage! You all might be destroying evidence of murder!!"

Stifled gasps came from several nearby crewmen. "Murder?" asked Rostov, uncomprehendingly.

Trip blinked as he suddenly realized, they didn't know. Of course they didn't. "T'Pol died," he said abruptly. "We have to figure out what happened, why the explosion happened."

No one moved, they all just stared at him. "Hess, Rostov, start organizing the debris by type. Pieces of bulkhead here, conduits, relays and junction boxes over there, computer components by the wall."

"Aye, sir," said Hess and Rostov together. Hess immediately began directing different crewmembers to assist her.

"I'll be in my office," Trip said. He turned and stalked off, not even hearing the commotion behind him as his crew finally reacted to the news he had presented so brusquely.

When he reached his office, Trip sank down in his chair and rubbed his face, hard, with his bandaged hands, then gingerly fingered the unfamiliar roughness along his left cheekbone. It didn't hurt, the doctor had seen to that, but on some level Trip wished it did. Then at least he could concentrate on the physical pain rather than this gnawing feeling of guilt that was eating up his insides.

With a weary sigh, Trip opened his desktop monitor and punched up the schematics for the damaged section. He placed his fingertip on Junction A- 7, the one that had registered hot just before the explosion. He figured that was the best place to start.

He called up an enlarged, more detailed schematic that included just that junction. He noticed that five of the six inputs on the junction were filled, but felt no particular concern. Even though that was a higher number than average, it should be all right. Those junction boxes were rated for 6/6 inputs, he had checked it himself just a few months ago.

Trip widened the view slightly. He shifted in his chair, wincing at the returning sensation in his bruised back, and leaned forward to get a closer look. With one fingertip he traced the wiring backwards, upstream, and found six relays. Three of the relays were dimmed and had tiny red x's in the corner, and no wiring was connected to either their inputs or outputs, which meant they were no longer in use.

With a tight feeling in his throat and chest that had nothing to do with smoke inhalation, Trip touched one of the active relays and traced the wiring coming from its output. About one quarter of the way to Junction A- 7, he came upon a splice, and his heart nearly stopped. A splice. More wiring had been spliced in, to reroute power around the inactive relays. 'When did that happen? And how did I miss it?' Frantically he traced downstream from the other two active relays and found two more splices. That meant that even though only five inputs were filled, as much power was flowing through that particular junction box as if there were eight inputs, which was much more than the box could handle.

He had a sudden flash of recall: Weapons testing seven months ago, blown relays, not enough spare parts to replace them all. That was why he had been checking the rating on those junction boxes, to see if they could handle 6/6 inputs.

Trip ran his fingers heavily through his hair, and another memory flashed through his mind, of installing the Antimatter Injection Booster. When T'Pol had arrived, he had been finishing up the wiring on Junction A-7. He had seen three empty inputs, and in his haste he had filled two of them with wiring coming from the booster, not realizing that the three filled inputs were already carrying the load of six. Oh, God, I did it, he thought.

The entire tragic picture was now complete in his mind. Junction A-7 was already carrying a full load. When he had filled two more inputs, he had overloaded it. Even though the booster wasn't on-line yet, just enough power was flowing through the wiring to cause A-7 to go critical and blow.

Suddenly, another, even more terrifying thought sprang to his mind: if that box hadn't blown when it did, and he had activated the booster as he had intended, he could have blown up the entire ship.

Trip sat in shock, unmoving, staring at the monitor. 'I killed T'Pol,' he thought dully. 'It was my fault.' He dropped his head into his bandaged hands. 'I have to tell the captain. And Malcolm. How am I going to tell Malcolm that I killed the only woman he ever loved?'

With a hand that suddenly seemed impossibly heavy, Trip engaged the comm. "Tucker to Archer."

"Archer here. Did you find something?"

"Yes." He wanted to say more, but his throat closed up, making speech impossible.

"I'm on my way."

++

Despite his exhaustion, Archer almost ran to engineering. He was fairly sure Trip would have mentioned it over the comm. if he had found evidence of sabotage, so it must be something else.

When he entered Trip's office, after passing through the unnatural silence of the engineering crew scurrying to and fro picking up and sorting debris, he wasn't prepared for the look on Trip's face. The engineer sat forward in his chair, elbows on his desk, fingertips rubbing roughly at his temples. His face was pale and shock was obvious in his eyes.

"What is it? What happened?"

"It was my fault, Cap'n."

"What do you mean?"

"It was an accident. I overloaded the junction without realizing it."

Archer dropped into the nearest chair. "How could this happen?"

Trip just shook his head silently and resumed digging at his temples, eyes locked on his desk. "We're just lucky I didn't blow up the ship."

"I want every relay, coupling, and junction inspected immediately, before we return to warp. We can't let his happen again."

"I've already ordered it, sir. It'll take about two weeks."

Archer sank back into his chair and wearily pinched the bridge of his nose. "We have to tell Malcolm."

"I'll tell him," Trip said dully.

"I can do it, if you want."

Trip squared his shoulders. "No, sir. It's my problem and I need to deal with it. I'll tell him."

Archer nodded. "You're right."

The shoulders dropped again and uncertainty appeared in Trip's eyes. "Should I tell him now, or wait?"

"Do it now, Trip. The longer you wait, the harder it will be."

"I don't want to make things worse."

"Things couldn't possibly be any worse."

Trip stared at his desk silently for a moment. "He just showed up here after the accident, did you know that?"

Archer shook his head.

"No one even called him, he just knew." Trip sniffled hard and dragged the bandaged palms of his hands across his eyes. "Did you notice he wasn't crying?"

"Yes, I did."

Trip continued. "I was, and you were, and Cutler, and even Phlox looked upset, but Malcolm--he never showed any emotion at all, except right at the moment she--she died. He was like a statue."

++

To be continued