DISCLAIMER: The following story is based on the show "Star Trek: Enterprise." This is purely for enjoyment; no profit is involved and no infringement on copyrights held by others is intended.

SPOILERS: Similitude; this is something of an epilogue, so you need to have seen it.

NOTES: I haven't yet read any fanfics based on Similitude (because I was writing this one, and I'm a freakin' slow writer), so any similarity between my story and anyone else's is purely coincidental. The poem mentioned herein is "I Go Back to the House for a Book" by Billy Collins.

FEEDBACK: Constructive criticism welcomed at kaimeara72@hotmail.com

Moving Forward

by KaiMeara

"When were you gonna tell me?"

Dr. Phlox hadn't turned when the sickbay doors opened, and he didn't turn at the sound of Commander Tucker's vehement question. He'd hoped this day would never come. It was bad enough that the Chief Engineer had to live with the knowledge that another being had lived and died to save his life; Phlox hadn't wanted him to know that Sim might not have had to die at all. Might… That tiny word still cut a swath through his gut every time he considered the choices that had hung on that word. He sighed. Clearly, Commander Tucker had learned the truth.

"Well?"

Phlox set down the tricorder he'd been recalibrating and finally faced his visitor. "Honestly? Never."

Commander Tucker stared at the doctor; the disbelief in his eyes asked the next question for him and Phlox answered it.

"Neither I nor the Captain felt you needed that additional burden. Believe me, if I could erase that knowledge from my own mind, I would do so without hesitation." He turned back to the tricorder but didn't pick it up. He'd already recalibrated it three times in the last two days anyway. "How did you find out?"

"I overheard a conversation between the Cap'n and T'Pol. Pure luck really. Bad luck, but then, I guess I've had a lot of that lately—so much that I managed to pass it on to my clone. That's pretty impressive, huh?"

Phlox felt a stab of anger at the self-pity and defeat in the Chief Engineer's voice, but years of dealing with patients' mental and physical healing processes—and Commander Tucker was still healing from more than his recent accident—allowed him to compose himself. "I have something for you," he said, reaching into a nearby cabinet. Pulling the small item off its shelf, he turned and handed it to Commander Tucker.

"It's a data stick," Commander Tucker said, puzzled.

Phlox nodded. "Sim made this a few hours before…" he cut himself off, then cleared his throat, "Ahem, well, he asked me to give this to you if you ever learned the whole truth."

"Have you seen it?"

"No." Phlox smiled a small, sad smile. "But I can guess what he said. Take it; it's yours."

********

Trip sat at his desk in his dim quarters, turning the stick over in his hands as he had been for the last twenty minutes. He wanted to see Sim's message more than anything—except that he didn't want to see it at all.

"I suppose I owe it to you," he said aloud, then laughed a short, mirthless laugh. "Hell, I owe everything to you, and everyone knows it. I don't need you to tell me that too." He dropped the stick, stood, and raised his foot to bring it down on the fragile object, then slowly lowered it again and sat back down.

Sim had lived an entire life—Trip's entire life—in less than two weeks, and he'd used some of his last few moments of that too-brief time to create this message. "Damn," Trip whispered, feeling the sting of tears in his eyes, an all-too-familiar feeling these days.

Giving himself no more time to think, he picked up the stick and inserted it into his computer. The Federation symbol disappeared, replaced by Sim's face. Trip could see his quarters in the background; Sim was sitting in Trip's chair, facing Trip's computer. Trip shook off the sudden sense of déjà vu. It's not me, it's Sim. He sat back and watched.

"It's kinda strange doin' this, knowin' we'll never actually meet face to face. We were supposed to, you know—or maybe you didn't 'til now…but yeah, Dr. Phlox thought I would survive the operation at first. I don't think he would've made me if he'd believed otherwise. He's got an awfully big heart. I'm pretty sure you never knew that; at least, I don't have any memories that say you did.

Anyway…the thing is, between the two of us, we've spent more'n enough time on this ship to know that word gets around; rumors spread. Seems like the people who don't know what they're talkin' about are always the most willin' to share their opinions. So, I figured I'd get my word in while I had the chance.

If you're watchin' this, then you know that there was chance I could'a lived a full life span if I hadn't gone through with the operation. I asked Dr. Phlox to give you this if you ever found out, because I knew you'd be upset.

If I know you at all—and let's face it, I do—then you're probably feelin' guilty right now. Well, don't. Yes, this all happened on your account; I'm not denyin' that. But you didn't have a say in any of it, and I know if you had, you would'a been on my side. I know that, you understand?

I also wanted to tell you not to be too hard on Cap'n Archer. I've had plenty of reason to hate him in my short life, but luckily it's balanced by knowin' him like I do. Or like you do, at any rate. As angry as I've been, I still know this wasn't an easy decision for him. And I do understand it, I honestly do; Enterprise needs a Chief Engineer. There was only a slight chance that my life could be extended, but it was a virtual certainty that you could be saved if I agreed to the operation.

Matter of fact, I told the Cap'n that the reason I was willin' to do this was because of this mission—because of Lizzie; that I didn't want what happened to her to happen to anyone else. That was the truth, but it wasn't the whole truth. I also did it because of you.

I think things would'a been different if I didn't have your memories. It's like…it's that…well, okay; you remember back in the Academy when I—I mean you—took that class on 20th century poetry? It was to impress that girl…I can't remember her name now…maybe you'll think of it later. Anyway, there was one poem I—you—really liked, remember? It was about a guy who's about to leave the house, but he goes back for a book and he thinks about how from that moment on, there'll always be this ghost of himself somewhere out in the world, another version of himself who didn't go back for the book.

I remembered that poem a few hours ago and I suddenly realized that I'm the ghost. Not the guy, the person who's life it was in the first place, but this alternate that was accidentally created, living out your life for you. I realized that as badly as I've wished I could be the one to stay, it's all based on these memories of yours. Every dream I think I have is really your dream. Everything I think I want, it's really what you want. Everything I have—or could have—it's yours, or else it should be.

It's like I'm a too perfect copy, you know? I mean, usually when something is cloned, it's an empty vessel that might be filled a little differently than the one before. Not me. I'm not like you—I am you. I believe wholeheartedly that I'm entitled to my life…but I don't think for a minute that I'm entitled to yours.

I hope this all makes sense. I don't know if you can really understand where I'm comin' from—I know what it's like to be you, but you'll never know what it was like to be me. I guess you'll just have to trust me. Whatever else you think or hear, believe this: it really was my choice, and I don't regret it.

Good luck, Trip. Have a great life—for both of us."

The screen went black and Trip found himself looking at his own reflection. It was oddly disconcerting after watching the recording. Like a ghost…He suppressed a shudder. Am I supposed to feel better now? Or ever?

Trip turned towards the long window on his right to face the blackness of space instead, a blackness broken by millions of tiny lights. It was soothing, watching the stars zip by; he'd often sat for long stretches, mesmerized by the pseudo-motion, letting his mind empty itself of everything. This time though, a memory surfaced—so clear, it was as if he was watching another recording.

He was just five or six, and his father had taken him camping. The first night, they'd lain on their backs looking at the sky and he'd asked his father how the stars found their way back to their places every night. His father had laughed gently. "The stars don't move, son; we do." Young Trip had thought for a moment then asked, "Then how do we find our way back?" His father was surprised by the question but replied, "Well, kiddo, I guess we just keep moving forward and somehow we get to where we need to be."

In the silence, Trip suddenly noticed the faint, ever-present hum of the ship's engines as Enterprise continued on through the Expanse. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, letting it carry him forward.