A/N: Thank you to Entgirl (see her review of this story) who cleared up
the question about whether Spock was officially the first Vulcan/Human
hybrid. I don't know enough about Trek Canon to know whether he was or
not. And besides, I said at the beginning that this story was somewhat AU,
so that's my defense if I'm wrong. :-)
++
Chapter 6: Fathers and sons
~~~~~~~~~~
He is six years old, standing on a sandy beach, wearing only a swimming suit, with the wind raising gooseflesh on his bare arms and legs. He can see the sun glinting off the water and bleaching white the faded boards of the dock. Happy squeals and laughter surround him, but he is not happy. He is terrified. He shivers uncontrollably.
"Look at me, boy," a voice demands, and he squints up into his father's face. "This is not the way I expect my son to behave."
"I'm sorry, Sir," he says, automatically. He eyes the water, biting his lip.
"Now get your arse in that water immediately, boy."
He shakes his head, quickly. "I can't."
His father laces his fingers through Malcolm's dark hair and pulls his head back, leaning in until their faces are inches apart. "You can and you will. No son of mine will behave this way."
Without waiting for a response, his father wraps one strong arm around Malcolm's waist and lifts him into the air. Malcolm does not struggle. He knows the consequences of struggling will be swift and severe, so he holds himself rigid and fights the urge to panic.
His father strides out onto the dock. When he reaches the end, Malcolm loses his tenuous grasp on control. "Father, please, I'm sorry!! I'll try again!! Please!!" He twists in his father's grasp and tries to wrap his arms around his father's neck.
An open hand clots him on the back of the head, causing him to see stars. "Silence!"
His father leans out over the end of the dock and flings Malcolm out into the water, too far away for him to reach the ladder, although he stretches his hands toward it, desperately.
His thrashing stirs up the sediment at the bottom of the lake and clouds the water. He sinks below the surface, arms flailing, and pops back up again, coughing and choking. He can see, through stinging eyes, his father's back as he walks away, back down the dock. All around him boys with sunburned faces are laughing at him.
He slips below the surface again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Malcolm returned to consciousness suddenly, gasping, blinking at his unfamiliar surroundings. Slowly he remembered that he was in sickbay. The lights were dimmed and he was reclined in an easy chair, covered with a soft blanket. The baby was no longer nestled on his chest, and after a moment of frantic searching, Malcolm discovered that he was back in the isolette, still sleeping peacefully, with the monitor beeping out its reassuring rhythm. The doctor was nowhere in evidence.
Malcolm tried to stand and was immediately driven back in his chair by a rush of memories and powerful emotions. With a tremendous effort he pulled the protective bubble in around himself, sat for a moment until he felt he could continue, and tried again, this time successfully, to get to his feet.
He edged closer to the isolette and laid his fingers against the hard plastic side that divided him from his son, who continued to sleep, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that had surrounded his birth.
Malcolm's eyes traced the fine points on the tiny ears. Graceful, delicate, beautiful, like hers. The baby was perfect in every way. And he was Malcolm's responsibility now. Malcolm, who knew nothing about babies, had never wanted a child, would now, somehow, impossibly, be raising this child alone.
Alone.
Overwhelming loneliness swept over Malcolm like a tidal wave, bursting his fragile bubble of self-protection, and instantly he was overcome. Pressing his forehead against the hard, unforgiving side of the isolette, he began to cry, softly at first, and then harder, until he was sobbing in despair, shoulders heaving, whole body trembling with the failed effort to contain his emotions.
She was gone. He was Alone. Completely Alone.
++
Trip entered sickbay to find the lights dimmed and no one in sight. He almost turned to go, thinking Malcolm had returned to his quarters to get some sleep, when his eyes fell on the corner where the isolette sat. In the dim light he could make out Malcolm's slim outline, with his back to Trip. He was leaned over, staring into the isolette, and he hadn't moved when Trip entered.
Trip took a tentative step toward the shadowed figure, and noticed that Malcolm's shoulders were shaking, spasmodically. Trip quietly closed the distance between them, and after a moment, hesitantly laid his hand on Malcolm's shoulder. He felt the muscles bunch up and tighten under his palm.
"Malcolm. . ."
"I never told her I loved her."
"She knew."
"I can't believe I let a such a stupid argument come between us. How could I have been so concerned about what his name would be?"
"You were just thinking about making your father happy. There's no shame in that."
Malcolm's head swung back and forth slowly. "I'm just like him. The one person I hate the most. The one I never wanted to be."
Everything Trip was going to say went out the window as he focused on doing what he did best, fixing the problem at hand. "That's not true, Malcolm. You aren't like him."
"How would you know?" Malcolm said bitterly.
"I know you."
"Do you? Do you really?"
"Yes, I do." Trip voice was almost pleading now, begging Malcolm to believe him.
"No, you don't, because I don't let anyone know me."
"I do know you."
"What do you know? Did you know my father threw me out of the house when I was seventeen? Did you know he--he almost drowned me once?
Trip didn't know what to say. After a moment, Malcolm started talking again. "I was six years old. My father was determined that I should learn how to swim. In front of all the other boys, he threw we into the deepest part of the swimming area and simply walked away. I was screaming and thrashing, terrified I was going to drown. Finally, when I had been under the water for over two minutes, he dove in and pulled me out."
Malcolm paused in his story, and Trip almost interrupted to say that Malcolm would never do anything like that to his son, but Malcolm continued, quietly, never making eye contact, almost like he was talking to himself.
"When I told my mother what happened, she said, 'you shouldn't have provoked him.' That's when I knew I was on my own. My mother wasn't going to protect me. I just remember standing there soaking wet, shivering, watching my mother walk away. I felt so alone. I ran into the locker room and hid in a locker and cried until I couldn't cry anymore. I had never cried like that since, up until a few months ago. I never let anyone get close enough to really hurt me."
"Until T'Pol."
"Until. . . T'Pol."
"I'm so sorry, Malcolm." The words were on the end of Trip's tongue, but he couldn't force them out, couldn't make himself say what he knew would even further dismantle his friend's already shattered existence.
Malcolm laid a hand on the side of the isolette. "What if he dies?"
"He's not going to die."
"But what if he does?" Malcolm asked forlornly. "I'll be left with nothing."
"Not nothing. You've got all of us."
"I'm sorry, Trip, but that doesn't mean a whole lot right now." Malcolm straightened and wiped his face with his palms. He turned swiftly, brushed by Trip without actually touching him, and strode out, never looking back. Trip's face twisted as he watched him go, and his shoulders slumped with the weight of his guilt.
After the doors had closed, Trip finally turned back to the isolette. He hadn't gotten to see the baby yet, and now for some reason he was afraid to look.
Taking a deep breath, he walked forward two steps and peered down at the infant, so tiny and helpless. He looked perfect. Trip had seen several newborn babies before, and they always looked like freshly skinned rabbits. This one was beautiful, a tiny replica of T'Pol, but with Malcolm's eyes.
"Hey, little man," he said softly. "Welcome to Enterprise. You look an awful lot like your mama, kiddo. I don't know if that's good or bad right now." Trip paused and just stared for a minute.
"I'm so sorry for what happened to your mama," he continued, in a voice that quavered and cracked. "You see, it was all my fault. I hope--I hope you can forgive me someday."
Trip heard the doors to the surgical bay swish open and he stepped back hurriedly, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. He ducked his head and turned slightly to see Cutler emerging from the bay carrying a medical tricorder and some other equipment. Struck by sudden embarrassment, he nodded at her and walked out of sickbay.
++
"Captain's log, June 20, 2152. Commander Tucker's investigation into the cause of the explosion indicates that an accidental overload of a junction box may be to blame. I've ordered an immediate inspection of all wiring throughout the ship, to make sure there aren't any other surprises waiting for us. It'll be at least two weeks before we are able to go to warp again. Admiral Forrest has ordered Enterprise to return to Earth for repairs and inspection as soon as possible.
"In the meantime, we have a memorial to plan. I've already contacted Vulcan High Command. I've decided to let Malcolm decide whether T'Pol should be buried in space or returned to Vulcan."
Archer stopped and closed his eyes. "Computer, pause." He rubbed the spot above his eyes where a massive headache was forming. The Vulcan Commander he had spoken to had been adamant about T'Pol's body being returned to Vulcan where it could be cremated and properly interred, but Archer felt that the choice should be left up to Malcolm, as her bondmate and the father of her child.
The doorchime chirped. "Come," Archer called absently, still rubbing his forehead. The door opened, and then there was silence. After a moment, Archer lifted his head and saw that Malcolm was standing in front of his desk, hands folded behind his back, gaze fixed on a spot on the wall. His hair was unkempt, his clothes were rumpled, and his eyes were shot through and rimmed with red.
"Malcolm, please sit down," Archer said. 'Before you fall down,' his mind added silently. "Did Trip talk to you?"
A flash of confusion crossed Malcolm's face. "He came to sickbay, but he didn't tell me anything. Why?"
Archer took a deep breath. "We found the cause of the explosion."
"What was it?"
"An accident. A junction box was overloaded and blew. Trip feels horrible."
"Why?" Malcolm demanded.
"He was the one who overloaded the box when he was rerouting power around some blown relays. He didn't realize it until later, when he looked at the schematics."
Malcolm's gaze returned to the far wall and his face hardened. "I see."
"He wanted to tell you himself."
"Then why didn't he?"
"I--I don't know. This is very hard for all of us."
Malcolm stared at the wall silently. Archer expected tears, some sort of outburst, but Malcolm sat quietly, his face hard and expressionless, like stone.
"Do you know what you want to do?"
"T'Pol wanted to raise the baby on Earth."
"Is that what you want?"
The mask slipped, just a little. "I--I don't know what I want. Captain, I don't think I can do this alone."
"What about your family?"
"You've talked to my parents. They won't be any help."
"Your sister?"
"I could call her, but she's busy with her own life. She doesn't have time to help me raise a baby."
Archer circled the desk and sat in the chair next to Malcolm. "I was raised by a single father, you know. It wasn't easy, but we both survived."
"I know."
"I talked to Admiral Forrest about the possibility of raising the child here, on Enterprise, but he said it was against regulations."
"You asked him that?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
"Forrest has ordered us back to Earth for repairs and inspection. It should take about three months to reach it. If you make another decision before we get there, fine."
"All right."
"Malcolm, I need to know what you want to do about the burial. The High Command would like T'Pol's body returned to Vulcan for cremation."
Malcolm shook his head quickly. "No, she didn't want to go there. She didn't feel comfortable there anymore."
"We can bury her in space, if you prefer."
"That's what she would have wanted."
"I'll tell the High Command it was my decision, if they question it."
"Thank you, Captain."
Archer pushed himself out of the chair and returned to the other side of the desk. "I need to make an announcement to the crew about what's happened. Would you like to stay?"
Malcolm nodded, so Archer shuffled through the PADDs on his desk until he found the one with the announcement that he had planned. "Does the baby have a middle name?" he asked, looking up at Malcolm.
Malcolm shook his head. "I haven't thought about that yet."
Taking another deep breath, Archer thumbed the comm. "All hands, this is the captain. I have an announcement to make. As some of you already know, there was an accident in engineering last night at approximately 22:15. Sub-Commander T'Pol was gravely injured in that accident. Dr. Phlox and his team did everything they could to try to save her, but she was too badly injured and--and she died.
"Dr. Phlox was able to safely deliver her baby. Aidan Reed was born at 22:50 last night, weighing in at 1.3 kilograms, 30 centimeters long. He's in good health, but Dr. Phlox says he's not ready for visitors yet, so please try to avoid sickbay unless absolutely necessary. I'll inform you when it's all right to visit.
"There will be a memorial service for Sub-Commander T'Pol Thursday morning at 0800. All personnel are given leave to attend. Archer out."
When Archer finished the announcement, Malcolm continued to sit in silence, with a far-away look in his eyes. "Malcolm?"
The far-away look abruptly disappeared. "Yes, sir?"
"Why don't you go get some sleep?"
Malcolm pushed himself out the chair and stood. "I need to get back to sickbay."
"Phlox and Cutler can take care of the baby for a while. You need to rest."
"I'll think about it, sir. Am I dismissed?"
"Of course."
Malcolm nodded curtly, turned and left without another word. Archer stared after him, with concern building in his chest. Malcolm had always been a closed book as far as his captain was concerned, but now he was more like a locked safe, completely closed off, unknowable, unreachable. Archer had no idea how to break through that hard exterior to the place where Malcolm kept his emotions hidden.
Heaving a deep melancholic sigh, Archer turned back to his log entry. What he had written so far seemed completely inadequate to describe the ups and downs of the previous few hours, but he didn't have the words to make it better. Maybe the right words didn't exist.
++
Instead of going to his quarters as the captain had advised, Malcolm returned to sickbay, hoping desperately that Trip had left and he wouldn't have to talk to him. Malcolm didn't think he could handle the weight of Trip's guilt right now on top of everything else.
When he entered sickbay, it was still dark and quiet, and Trip was gone. Malcolm crossed to the isolette and took up his previous position with his forehead resting against the plexiglass, staring down at the baby, who was still fast asleep.
Although outwardly he was still and calm, a frenzied muddle of questions was darting through his brain, too quickly for him to even process properly. There were so many decisions to be made, and he would have to make them all alone. There was no one else to rely on, no one to turn to. And there was no margin of error in this situation. The slightest miscalculation or lack of knowledge on his part could lead to serious harm or even death for the baby. The weight of responsibility was almost unbearable. Malcolm had always considered himself to be resourceful, able to make difficult decisions if needed, but now he realized he was completely out of his depth. A tiny, 1.3 kilogram bundle had thrown his neatly ordered world into complete chaos.
After several minutes, he heard the doors to the surgical bay open and then Phlox was beside him, checking the monitors and adjusting the tubes and wires. He looked up and Phlox gave him a wan smile, a mere shadow of his usual cheerful grin.
"Ah, Lieutenant, you've returned. Did you have a nice rest?"
"I suppose. What time is it?"
"Nearly 0700. You slept for about three hours. Not enough, I should think. You should try to sleep while the baby does."
"When does he need to eat?"
"I imagine he'll be hungry when he wakes up. We can try an oral feeding then."
"But how often should he eat?"
"Newborns usually eat every two to three hours." Phlox moved off to check another monitor, and Malcolm followed.
"How much should he eat at each feeding?"
"As much as he wants."
"Then how will I know how much he wants?"
"He'll let you know when he's had enough." Phlox chuckled and moved to adjust the thermostat on the isolette. Malcolm trailed after him.
"But what if I don't give him enough? How do I know if he's hungry?"
"If he's trying to eat his fists, or turns toward your hand when you touch his cheek, he's probably hungry."
"Will he cry if he gets hungry?"
"Most likely." Apparently satisfied at the temperature of the isolette, Phlox crossed to a cupboard and took out a blanket and set of scrubs, with Malcolm on his heels.
"But he could cry for other reasons as well, so how will I know what he wants?"
"You'll figure it out, Lieutenant." Phlox dropped the scrubs on one biobed, opened the blanket and draped it over another.
"I need to know now. I have to make sure I'm doing everything correctly."
"There will be plenty of time for you to learn." Phlox took hold of the hem of Malcolm's shirt and Malcolm lifted his arms unconsciously. The shirt was whipped over his head and replaced with the scrubs top. "I'll let you take care of the pants."
Malcolm looked down at himself and realized for the first time that his trousers were stained with dark green blood. T'Pol's blood. With a fleeting, uncontrollable shiver, he untied the drawstring and kicked them off. Phlox held out the scrubs pants and Malcolm took them automatically, still focused on the thousands of questions running through his mind. "What does he eat? Can he drink milk?"
"He should drink special infant formula. I've programmed the beverage dispenser to produce it."
"What about bathing? How am I to bathe him?" Malcolm asked as he tied the string on the pants.
"He'll take sponge baths at first, and then he can have tub baths after his umbilical has healed."
"How often should I bathe him? And how do I bathe him, to prevent him from drowning?"
Phlox pulled back the blanket. "Lieutenant, I would be happy to give you all the information you want, with detailed demonstrations, later, after you've had some sleep." He gestured toward the biobed.
Malcolm shook his head vehemently. "I have to stay awake. He might need me."
"Ensign Cutler and I are here. We can take care of any need that arises."
"I need to learn how to feed him."
"I promise to awaken you when he is ready for feeding."
Malcolm eyed the biobed in indecision. He could feel the exhaustion of a nearly sleepless night pulling at the back of his mind. It was difficult to maintain control over his emotions when he was this tired. Sleep was logical at this point. So why did he feel an irrational fear at the thought of closing his eyes and surrendering to the darkness?
"I'll just lie down for a little while. I probably won't be able to sleep anyway," Malcolm decided aloud.
"Very well."
Malcolm climbed into the bed and Phlox pulled the blanket up over him. "Sleep well, Lieutenant."
~~~~~~~~~~~
Water. Freezing cold, up to his chest and rising. Near total dark. He lunges about clumsily in the ice-cold water, searching desperately for the hatch with numb, useless fingers.
At first all he can hear is the roar of the water, then he becomes aware of another sound. A thin wail, a newborn's insistent shriek. He turns his head from side to side, trying to locate the source of the cry.
"Where are you?" he tries to scream, but his voice is drowned out, washed away.
His search becomes more desperate. He stumbles to and fro on the listing deck, slogging through water nearly up to his neck, screaming "Where are you?!!"
The cry fades away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Author's note: Can you tell I'm a parent? I remember very clearly asking these same types of questions while we were in the hospital after my son was born. And picturing Malcolm waking up and "frantically searching" for the baby gave me the giggles, because it is exactly what my husband would have done when our son was a newborn!
++
Chapter 6: Fathers and sons
~~~~~~~~~~
He is six years old, standing on a sandy beach, wearing only a swimming suit, with the wind raising gooseflesh on his bare arms and legs. He can see the sun glinting off the water and bleaching white the faded boards of the dock. Happy squeals and laughter surround him, but he is not happy. He is terrified. He shivers uncontrollably.
"Look at me, boy," a voice demands, and he squints up into his father's face. "This is not the way I expect my son to behave."
"I'm sorry, Sir," he says, automatically. He eyes the water, biting his lip.
"Now get your arse in that water immediately, boy."
He shakes his head, quickly. "I can't."
His father laces his fingers through Malcolm's dark hair and pulls his head back, leaning in until their faces are inches apart. "You can and you will. No son of mine will behave this way."
Without waiting for a response, his father wraps one strong arm around Malcolm's waist and lifts him into the air. Malcolm does not struggle. He knows the consequences of struggling will be swift and severe, so he holds himself rigid and fights the urge to panic.
His father strides out onto the dock. When he reaches the end, Malcolm loses his tenuous grasp on control. "Father, please, I'm sorry!! I'll try again!! Please!!" He twists in his father's grasp and tries to wrap his arms around his father's neck.
An open hand clots him on the back of the head, causing him to see stars. "Silence!"
His father leans out over the end of the dock and flings Malcolm out into the water, too far away for him to reach the ladder, although he stretches his hands toward it, desperately.
His thrashing stirs up the sediment at the bottom of the lake and clouds the water. He sinks below the surface, arms flailing, and pops back up again, coughing and choking. He can see, through stinging eyes, his father's back as he walks away, back down the dock. All around him boys with sunburned faces are laughing at him.
He slips below the surface again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Malcolm returned to consciousness suddenly, gasping, blinking at his unfamiliar surroundings. Slowly he remembered that he was in sickbay. The lights were dimmed and he was reclined in an easy chair, covered with a soft blanket. The baby was no longer nestled on his chest, and after a moment of frantic searching, Malcolm discovered that he was back in the isolette, still sleeping peacefully, with the monitor beeping out its reassuring rhythm. The doctor was nowhere in evidence.
Malcolm tried to stand and was immediately driven back in his chair by a rush of memories and powerful emotions. With a tremendous effort he pulled the protective bubble in around himself, sat for a moment until he felt he could continue, and tried again, this time successfully, to get to his feet.
He edged closer to the isolette and laid his fingers against the hard plastic side that divided him from his son, who continued to sleep, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that had surrounded his birth.
Malcolm's eyes traced the fine points on the tiny ears. Graceful, delicate, beautiful, like hers. The baby was perfect in every way. And he was Malcolm's responsibility now. Malcolm, who knew nothing about babies, had never wanted a child, would now, somehow, impossibly, be raising this child alone.
Alone.
Overwhelming loneliness swept over Malcolm like a tidal wave, bursting his fragile bubble of self-protection, and instantly he was overcome. Pressing his forehead against the hard, unforgiving side of the isolette, he began to cry, softly at first, and then harder, until he was sobbing in despair, shoulders heaving, whole body trembling with the failed effort to contain his emotions.
She was gone. He was Alone. Completely Alone.
++
Trip entered sickbay to find the lights dimmed and no one in sight. He almost turned to go, thinking Malcolm had returned to his quarters to get some sleep, when his eyes fell on the corner where the isolette sat. In the dim light he could make out Malcolm's slim outline, with his back to Trip. He was leaned over, staring into the isolette, and he hadn't moved when Trip entered.
Trip took a tentative step toward the shadowed figure, and noticed that Malcolm's shoulders were shaking, spasmodically. Trip quietly closed the distance between them, and after a moment, hesitantly laid his hand on Malcolm's shoulder. He felt the muscles bunch up and tighten under his palm.
"Malcolm. . ."
"I never told her I loved her."
"She knew."
"I can't believe I let a such a stupid argument come between us. How could I have been so concerned about what his name would be?"
"You were just thinking about making your father happy. There's no shame in that."
Malcolm's head swung back and forth slowly. "I'm just like him. The one person I hate the most. The one I never wanted to be."
Everything Trip was going to say went out the window as he focused on doing what he did best, fixing the problem at hand. "That's not true, Malcolm. You aren't like him."
"How would you know?" Malcolm said bitterly.
"I know you."
"Do you? Do you really?"
"Yes, I do." Trip voice was almost pleading now, begging Malcolm to believe him.
"No, you don't, because I don't let anyone know me."
"I do know you."
"What do you know? Did you know my father threw me out of the house when I was seventeen? Did you know he--he almost drowned me once?
Trip didn't know what to say. After a moment, Malcolm started talking again. "I was six years old. My father was determined that I should learn how to swim. In front of all the other boys, he threw we into the deepest part of the swimming area and simply walked away. I was screaming and thrashing, terrified I was going to drown. Finally, when I had been under the water for over two minutes, he dove in and pulled me out."
Malcolm paused in his story, and Trip almost interrupted to say that Malcolm would never do anything like that to his son, but Malcolm continued, quietly, never making eye contact, almost like he was talking to himself.
"When I told my mother what happened, she said, 'you shouldn't have provoked him.' That's when I knew I was on my own. My mother wasn't going to protect me. I just remember standing there soaking wet, shivering, watching my mother walk away. I felt so alone. I ran into the locker room and hid in a locker and cried until I couldn't cry anymore. I had never cried like that since, up until a few months ago. I never let anyone get close enough to really hurt me."
"Until T'Pol."
"Until. . . T'Pol."
"I'm so sorry, Malcolm." The words were on the end of Trip's tongue, but he couldn't force them out, couldn't make himself say what he knew would even further dismantle his friend's already shattered existence.
Malcolm laid a hand on the side of the isolette. "What if he dies?"
"He's not going to die."
"But what if he does?" Malcolm asked forlornly. "I'll be left with nothing."
"Not nothing. You've got all of us."
"I'm sorry, Trip, but that doesn't mean a whole lot right now." Malcolm straightened and wiped his face with his palms. He turned swiftly, brushed by Trip without actually touching him, and strode out, never looking back. Trip's face twisted as he watched him go, and his shoulders slumped with the weight of his guilt.
After the doors had closed, Trip finally turned back to the isolette. He hadn't gotten to see the baby yet, and now for some reason he was afraid to look.
Taking a deep breath, he walked forward two steps and peered down at the infant, so tiny and helpless. He looked perfect. Trip had seen several newborn babies before, and they always looked like freshly skinned rabbits. This one was beautiful, a tiny replica of T'Pol, but with Malcolm's eyes.
"Hey, little man," he said softly. "Welcome to Enterprise. You look an awful lot like your mama, kiddo. I don't know if that's good or bad right now." Trip paused and just stared for a minute.
"I'm so sorry for what happened to your mama," he continued, in a voice that quavered and cracked. "You see, it was all my fault. I hope--I hope you can forgive me someday."
Trip heard the doors to the surgical bay swish open and he stepped back hurriedly, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. He ducked his head and turned slightly to see Cutler emerging from the bay carrying a medical tricorder and some other equipment. Struck by sudden embarrassment, he nodded at her and walked out of sickbay.
++
"Captain's log, June 20, 2152. Commander Tucker's investigation into the cause of the explosion indicates that an accidental overload of a junction box may be to blame. I've ordered an immediate inspection of all wiring throughout the ship, to make sure there aren't any other surprises waiting for us. It'll be at least two weeks before we are able to go to warp again. Admiral Forrest has ordered Enterprise to return to Earth for repairs and inspection as soon as possible.
"In the meantime, we have a memorial to plan. I've already contacted Vulcan High Command. I've decided to let Malcolm decide whether T'Pol should be buried in space or returned to Vulcan."
Archer stopped and closed his eyes. "Computer, pause." He rubbed the spot above his eyes where a massive headache was forming. The Vulcan Commander he had spoken to had been adamant about T'Pol's body being returned to Vulcan where it could be cremated and properly interred, but Archer felt that the choice should be left up to Malcolm, as her bondmate and the father of her child.
The doorchime chirped. "Come," Archer called absently, still rubbing his forehead. The door opened, and then there was silence. After a moment, Archer lifted his head and saw that Malcolm was standing in front of his desk, hands folded behind his back, gaze fixed on a spot on the wall. His hair was unkempt, his clothes were rumpled, and his eyes were shot through and rimmed with red.
"Malcolm, please sit down," Archer said. 'Before you fall down,' his mind added silently. "Did Trip talk to you?"
A flash of confusion crossed Malcolm's face. "He came to sickbay, but he didn't tell me anything. Why?"
Archer took a deep breath. "We found the cause of the explosion."
"What was it?"
"An accident. A junction box was overloaded and blew. Trip feels horrible."
"Why?" Malcolm demanded.
"He was the one who overloaded the box when he was rerouting power around some blown relays. He didn't realize it until later, when he looked at the schematics."
Malcolm's gaze returned to the far wall and his face hardened. "I see."
"He wanted to tell you himself."
"Then why didn't he?"
"I--I don't know. This is very hard for all of us."
Malcolm stared at the wall silently. Archer expected tears, some sort of outburst, but Malcolm sat quietly, his face hard and expressionless, like stone.
"Do you know what you want to do?"
"T'Pol wanted to raise the baby on Earth."
"Is that what you want?"
The mask slipped, just a little. "I--I don't know what I want. Captain, I don't think I can do this alone."
"What about your family?"
"You've talked to my parents. They won't be any help."
"Your sister?"
"I could call her, but she's busy with her own life. She doesn't have time to help me raise a baby."
Archer circled the desk and sat in the chair next to Malcolm. "I was raised by a single father, you know. It wasn't easy, but we both survived."
"I know."
"I talked to Admiral Forrest about the possibility of raising the child here, on Enterprise, but he said it was against regulations."
"You asked him that?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
"Forrest has ordered us back to Earth for repairs and inspection. It should take about three months to reach it. If you make another decision before we get there, fine."
"All right."
"Malcolm, I need to know what you want to do about the burial. The High Command would like T'Pol's body returned to Vulcan for cremation."
Malcolm shook his head quickly. "No, she didn't want to go there. She didn't feel comfortable there anymore."
"We can bury her in space, if you prefer."
"That's what she would have wanted."
"I'll tell the High Command it was my decision, if they question it."
"Thank you, Captain."
Archer pushed himself out of the chair and returned to the other side of the desk. "I need to make an announcement to the crew about what's happened. Would you like to stay?"
Malcolm nodded, so Archer shuffled through the PADDs on his desk until he found the one with the announcement that he had planned. "Does the baby have a middle name?" he asked, looking up at Malcolm.
Malcolm shook his head. "I haven't thought about that yet."
Taking another deep breath, Archer thumbed the comm. "All hands, this is the captain. I have an announcement to make. As some of you already know, there was an accident in engineering last night at approximately 22:15. Sub-Commander T'Pol was gravely injured in that accident. Dr. Phlox and his team did everything they could to try to save her, but she was too badly injured and--and she died.
"Dr. Phlox was able to safely deliver her baby. Aidan Reed was born at 22:50 last night, weighing in at 1.3 kilograms, 30 centimeters long. He's in good health, but Dr. Phlox says he's not ready for visitors yet, so please try to avoid sickbay unless absolutely necessary. I'll inform you when it's all right to visit.
"There will be a memorial service for Sub-Commander T'Pol Thursday morning at 0800. All personnel are given leave to attend. Archer out."
When Archer finished the announcement, Malcolm continued to sit in silence, with a far-away look in his eyes. "Malcolm?"
The far-away look abruptly disappeared. "Yes, sir?"
"Why don't you go get some sleep?"
Malcolm pushed himself out the chair and stood. "I need to get back to sickbay."
"Phlox and Cutler can take care of the baby for a while. You need to rest."
"I'll think about it, sir. Am I dismissed?"
"Of course."
Malcolm nodded curtly, turned and left without another word. Archer stared after him, with concern building in his chest. Malcolm had always been a closed book as far as his captain was concerned, but now he was more like a locked safe, completely closed off, unknowable, unreachable. Archer had no idea how to break through that hard exterior to the place where Malcolm kept his emotions hidden.
Heaving a deep melancholic sigh, Archer turned back to his log entry. What he had written so far seemed completely inadequate to describe the ups and downs of the previous few hours, but he didn't have the words to make it better. Maybe the right words didn't exist.
++
Instead of going to his quarters as the captain had advised, Malcolm returned to sickbay, hoping desperately that Trip had left and he wouldn't have to talk to him. Malcolm didn't think he could handle the weight of Trip's guilt right now on top of everything else.
When he entered sickbay, it was still dark and quiet, and Trip was gone. Malcolm crossed to the isolette and took up his previous position with his forehead resting against the plexiglass, staring down at the baby, who was still fast asleep.
Although outwardly he was still and calm, a frenzied muddle of questions was darting through his brain, too quickly for him to even process properly. There were so many decisions to be made, and he would have to make them all alone. There was no one else to rely on, no one to turn to. And there was no margin of error in this situation. The slightest miscalculation or lack of knowledge on his part could lead to serious harm or even death for the baby. The weight of responsibility was almost unbearable. Malcolm had always considered himself to be resourceful, able to make difficult decisions if needed, but now he realized he was completely out of his depth. A tiny, 1.3 kilogram bundle had thrown his neatly ordered world into complete chaos.
After several minutes, he heard the doors to the surgical bay open and then Phlox was beside him, checking the monitors and adjusting the tubes and wires. He looked up and Phlox gave him a wan smile, a mere shadow of his usual cheerful grin.
"Ah, Lieutenant, you've returned. Did you have a nice rest?"
"I suppose. What time is it?"
"Nearly 0700. You slept for about three hours. Not enough, I should think. You should try to sleep while the baby does."
"When does he need to eat?"
"I imagine he'll be hungry when he wakes up. We can try an oral feeding then."
"But how often should he eat?"
"Newborns usually eat every two to three hours." Phlox moved off to check another monitor, and Malcolm followed.
"How much should he eat at each feeding?"
"As much as he wants."
"Then how will I know how much he wants?"
"He'll let you know when he's had enough." Phlox chuckled and moved to adjust the thermostat on the isolette. Malcolm trailed after him.
"But what if I don't give him enough? How do I know if he's hungry?"
"If he's trying to eat his fists, or turns toward your hand when you touch his cheek, he's probably hungry."
"Will he cry if he gets hungry?"
"Most likely." Apparently satisfied at the temperature of the isolette, Phlox crossed to a cupboard and took out a blanket and set of scrubs, with Malcolm on his heels.
"But he could cry for other reasons as well, so how will I know what he wants?"
"You'll figure it out, Lieutenant." Phlox dropped the scrubs on one biobed, opened the blanket and draped it over another.
"I need to know now. I have to make sure I'm doing everything correctly."
"There will be plenty of time for you to learn." Phlox took hold of the hem of Malcolm's shirt and Malcolm lifted his arms unconsciously. The shirt was whipped over his head and replaced with the scrubs top. "I'll let you take care of the pants."
Malcolm looked down at himself and realized for the first time that his trousers were stained with dark green blood. T'Pol's blood. With a fleeting, uncontrollable shiver, he untied the drawstring and kicked them off. Phlox held out the scrubs pants and Malcolm took them automatically, still focused on the thousands of questions running through his mind. "What does he eat? Can he drink milk?"
"He should drink special infant formula. I've programmed the beverage dispenser to produce it."
"What about bathing? How am I to bathe him?" Malcolm asked as he tied the string on the pants.
"He'll take sponge baths at first, and then he can have tub baths after his umbilical has healed."
"How often should I bathe him? And how do I bathe him, to prevent him from drowning?"
Phlox pulled back the blanket. "Lieutenant, I would be happy to give you all the information you want, with detailed demonstrations, later, after you've had some sleep." He gestured toward the biobed.
Malcolm shook his head vehemently. "I have to stay awake. He might need me."
"Ensign Cutler and I are here. We can take care of any need that arises."
"I need to learn how to feed him."
"I promise to awaken you when he is ready for feeding."
Malcolm eyed the biobed in indecision. He could feel the exhaustion of a nearly sleepless night pulling at the back of his mind. It was difficult to maintain control over his emotions when he was this tired. Sleep was logical at this point. So why did he feel an irrational fear at the thought of closing his eyes and surrendering to the darkness?
"I'll just lie down for a little while. I probably won't be able to sleep anyway," Malcolm decided aloud.
"Very well."
Malcolm climbed into the bed and Phlox pulled the blanket up over him. "Sleep well, Lieutenant."
~~~~~~~~~~~
Water. Freezing cold, up to his chest and rising. Near total dark. He lunges about clumsily in the ice-cold water, searching desperately for the hatch with numb, useless fingers.
At first all he can hear is the roar of the water, then he becomes aware of another sound. A thin wail, a newborn's insistent shriek. He turns his head from side to side, trying to locate the source of the cry.
"Where are you?" he tries to scream, but his voice is drowned out, washed away.
His search becomes more desperate. He stumbles to and fro on the listing deck, slogging through water nearly up to his neck, screaming "Where are you?!!"
The cry fades away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Author's note: Can you tell I'm a parent? I remember very clearly asking these same types of questions while we were in the hospital after my son was born. And picturing Malcolm waking up and "frantically searching" for the baby gave me the giggles, because it is exactly what my husband would have done when our son was a newborn!
