"My what?" He looked up, bleary eyed at this apparition that was -- like in life – not what she seemed. His faith? What faith had he ever had? Sundays were for football, not church in his book and Toby should know that.
"Your faith." She said it simply, as though it was the easiest thing in the world to understand. "I mean, look at you. Locked away in a cell like some medieval monk, flagellating himself for imagined sins. According to you, you've done wrong, so there's no need anymore for hope. You don't understand; we choose our lives for a reason, Trip."
He laughed, bitterly. "I think if I had the choice I would've gone for something other than this one. Something a little, I don't know, nicer?"
"It's not all that bad." She muttered. Louder she said, "Remember when you didn't make the football team in grade 7? Remember how you spent that summer in training, so that you'd have a better shot the next time? How much it hurt sometimes, but you kept going, because you had a goal and you knew it would make you better. It's the same thing, Trip."
There was a pause as she thought, then, "Are you familiar with the concept of catharsis?"
"That's the Greek thing, they did with their plays, right?" Even though he was a voracious reader, he regarded most high literature as too important for its own good. Maybe due to the way it was taught at school, but most of it bored him to tears. He'd rather a horror or adventure story, or in a pinch a good operations manual.
"Creating a story that inspired pity, yet understanding in the audience. Aristotle and others felt that the nature of catharsis was to cleanse the soul, and purify the emotions. Feeling bad to feel good, if you want to look at it rather simplistically. When Catholicism came along, they took the idea and expanded upon it, in the Rite of Reconciliation. You've heard the expression 'Confession is good for the soul?'"
He nodded.
"Well, they were working off the same principle. The rite has three different stages: Contrition, Confession, and Absolution. All three steps must accomplished in order, and according to Catholic doctrine, only a priest can provide you with the last, serving as an intermediary between the penitent and God. But they were wrong. You can't get any kind of absolution if you won't give it to yourself."
She knelt on the floor beside him, leaning her head into his side. He felt the same chill he had yesterday on the bike, as though she was pulling the heat out of him through her very touch. It was somehow comforting though, having her there. "Come on." She tugged his arm until he got out of the chair and sat down beside her, under the desk. Two children hiding against a storm, keeping each other safe.
"Do you remember this?" She reached up and ran her fingers across his forehead, over where the scar would be from the injury in the picture. "Remember how it happened?"
[ "Tri-ip." Elizabeth pulled on his sleeve, trying to get his attention. "Trip. My kite's stuck."
Stuck well, too, high up in a tree. "I want my kite back, Trip. Please."
He nodded, and reached over to ruffle her hair. "Sure, brat. Hang on." He looked across the sun-covered park to where his mother chatted with a couple of friends. Too busy to notice so… "Here goes nothing." He took a running start and jumped, barely able to grab onto the lowest limb. The rough bark cut into his hands a bit, but not enough to matter. Swinging back and forth, he got together enough momentum to toss one leg over the bough and pull himself up. Now it was simply a matter of picking his way through the close-knit branches and up to where the kite was.
Easier said than done. Light-weight as he was, some of those branches were little more that twigs, and Elizabeth – true to form for five year olds with kites – had managed to get it stuck right at the very top. Even from here he could see how the string tangled around a bit, meaning it would be more than a simple pull to get it out. As he eased closer, he saw that although it was wedged in well, the tough fabric of the kite itself was undamaged; it should fly again as soon as he got it down. Slowly, carefully, he began to extricate the toy. Now would not be a good time to remember I'm afraid of heights. As the thought crossed his mind, he glanced down, to late to recall that he shouldn't.
Crack. As his balance shifted, the branch underneath him gave way. Physics took charge, accelerating him towards the ground much faster than he'd gone up. He clawed desperately at the tree, which clawed back, raking across his forehead and sending blood dripping into his eyes.
He hit the ground loudly and hard, as Elizabeth began screaming. Dazed he looked down to his hands, which still held the kite, now broken beyond repair. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I'll get you a new one. A better one, how's that?" He didn't clue that she wasn't screaming about the kite; her screams were directed towards her broken brother.
"My God, Trip, what happened." Mom rushed to his side, covering the cut with a piece of his ripped shirt, then began feeling for broken bones, missing limbs or anything else that could be wrong with an unsupervised boy. Satisfied that he was in no imminent danger of death – blood and bruises were something she was used to in him by now, the by-product of a curious mind – she hauled him to his feet and started brushing him off.
"I got Elizabeth's kite back." He displayed it sheepishly, like a pagan penitent with an inadequate offering to his priest. "It broke though, but I said I'd get her a new one."
"Where was it?" His mother took the kite from him and folded it up before placing it in a nearby trashcan. He could tell she had an idea, but wanted to hear it from him.
"Up the tree. But I got it back for her, Mom. And I didn't mean to break it." Why did Mom seem so irritated with him? He'd only been trying to help. And he beat his fear of heights. It had been way up there, but he'd gone and got it, and hadn't been scared. At least not too scared to get it.
"You went up a tree to get a kite?" His mother knew about his acrophobia as much as he did. She came back to him and looked intently into his eyes, then reached out a hand to his siblings. "Come on, you two, we're going back to the car."
"But Mom," Trip felt he had to protest. Just because he'd done something didn't mean that the others should be punished for it. This day out was supposed to be a treat for all of them. Brother and sister echoed his sentiment.
"No buts. Get in the car, you two. Now." It was her 'I'm not kidding' tone, the one that came right before the 'You've pushed it too far now, Mister," tone. That one they didn't want to hear. "We're taking your brother to the hospital."
"Why?" Hospital? Was he hurt?
His mother looked at him, a wry smile twitching on her lips. "Because I want to see if you picked up that head injury after or before you fell out of the tree." ]
"I loved your Mom," Toby told him, "She could see the humour in anything. Remember you told me you put that snake in Elizabeth's dollhouse and she started screaming? Then your mom came and took it away, and later that night you found it in your bed?"
He nodded, smiling a little at the memory. He climbed halfway up the wall on that one, and his mother had stood there in the doorway with her arms crossed and a "Gotcha" smile on her face. Some of his best practical jokes were courtesy of his mother who never tired of finding creative ways to keep her rambunctious family in line. "Yeah, Mom was pretty cool."
"Your Dad wasn't all bad either." She met his dubious look straight on, daring him to contradict her. "Sure you guys had your troubles, but that was my mistake if you think about it."
"Your mistake?" He shook his head, trying to work this one out. "How could it be your mistake?"
She shrugged. "They did name you right, really. Most of the problems you and your dad had with each other are because you were too much alike." She ignored his raised eyebrows and kept going. "I mean you were both stubborn as hell, prone to extremes of emotion, and you loved each other very, very much. All the biggest times he lost it with you was because he was so scared for you. That's another thing between the both of you, neither one of you could discuss what you were really feeling. Especially if you were feeling sad, or scared, or even just unsure of yourself." She reached over and squeezed his hand. "I bet you don't remember him teaching you how to throw a football."
"We worked on it every day for three months. He spent so much time coming up with new drills, so I wouldn't get bored, and he helped me with the physics of it too, telling me why the ball flew like it did, and how I could change it. And I remember when I was having all that trouble in math," Surprisingly he did remember, his father patiently going over each step, showing a very confused Trip how everything fit together, how everything worked. The same thing with his first car. They spent hours poring over it, fine-tuning the fuel systems, the transmission, the suspension, everything. All the time, Dad telling him stories, good stories, stories that made him laugh so hard he had to sit down and regain his strength. Good times, good times he'd forgotten for a while. "He had his moments, I'll admit."
"Tom Cochrane and Red Rider. Victory Day." She laughed at the puzzled look he gave her, and elaborated. "I can't believe you've forgotten that. 'Life isn't big, no, it's kind of small/Made of small moments they're all strung together/And if you don't look out you might miss them all/Then it's just passed you on by like the weather…' You're confusing moments with all of Life, Trip."
"I'm not saying there weren't good times, I'm not saying that they didn't make up the bulk of things. But I am the centre of it when things go wrong. Not just wrong, but spectacularly wrong." He quoted a phrase from his days at E-school. "'If it malfunctions, there's a problem. If it blows up, it was Tucker.'"
She laughed, light high laughter that went on and on until she flickered around the edges. Only then did she force herself to stop and look into his pained face. "That's great. I mean look at some of the greatest discoveries in science: penicillin, vaccinations, gravity… the fact that noble gases will react… they're all the result of accidents, or of people saying 'I wonder what would happen if…' Nine times out of ten it blows up, but that tenth time…you're looking at the secrets of the universe, and understanding it all. You have that Power, Trip. The best souls never fit in line with everything else."
"Why are you doing this?" By any reasonable standards she shouldn't be. Not that Toby was ever reasonable; what she said about falling in line fit more with her than with him. Most of his life was a struggle to belong; she'd never given a damn either way. "You could've been out here yourself, if it wasn't for me. This is the life you were made for, Toby, it should have been yours."
"Me?" she squeaked. "Trip, you're talking about Starfleet here. Sharing rooms. Military discipline. I was lucky if I could ever find a clean pair of socks in the morning."
Funny how details could slip your mind, even ones as big as that one. Toby's room always looked as though a hurricane would neaten it; quite often she could be found wearing borrowed clothes, simply because she'd never gotten around to washing any of her own. It would've been a huge hindrance in Starfleet life, he had to admit that. As for discipline… well Toby was the only person he'd ever heard of who had to sneak into school, refusing to stay home while suspended.
"Still, I don't see how any of that changes things. The little things don't make up for the big mistakes." Especially when there were more big mistakes than little things. "Go ask anyone out there," he waved an arm to indicate the rest of the ship. "Go ask Captain Archer. There is no excuse for what I did. He gave me a responsibility, and I made a conscious decision and betrayed that. I nearly cost us this entire mission. Do you have any idea how much this means to him?"
"You know, I don't think he'd be on this mission if it weren't for you." She threw the words angrily back at him. "From what he was telling that dog, from the way he was saying things, I got the idea he was such a tight-ass that he'd never have gotten the assignment due to the simple fact that he'd alienate anyone who had to work for him. He says you're too impulsive, but he could use a little of it himself. And who says he's right, anyway."
"Excuse me?"
"You're the one who brought up ethics." She crawled out from under the desk, despite the fact that she probably could have just stood straight up through it. Standing up, she turned to face him, anger radiating from her face, from her posture. "How the fuck does he defend slavery then? Cultural diversity?"
Trip nodded. "We can't judge them just because they have a different culture. We may not agree with it but…"
"So it was entirely okay, ethical, by those standards, back when people like your friend Travis would be kept chained up, uneducated and sold off just because of the colour of their skin? Because it was cultural, legal even. By those standards, you're saying it was ethical to make little kids work for pennies because it was legal, and that's what the culture demanded. If you believe that, you're not the Trip I took you for, because the Trip I took you for gave a damn."
"But they're not human. It's not our issue."
"Bullshit." The lights grew dimmer and she grew brighter. "Some things are absolutely wrong, no matter what species you are. From what you said, she was an intelligent, self-aware being, and they were treating her like a piece of property."
"But I put the ideas in her head. I said that she could do anything, that she'd be safe." If he hadn't taught her to read, would have she realised what her situation entailed? He doubted it. It was the possibility, and the taking away of that hope that did the damage. If he'd walked away like T'Pol said, not gotten involved…
" 'You've got to stand for something, or you'll fall for anything.'[1] Trip, you gave her the only moments of real happiness she probably ever had in her life. Have you any idea what kind of a gift that is? You think she didn't know she was miserable before? The real problem is that Captain Archer," she added an extra shot of acrimony to the last two words, "was having too much fun with his new-found friends to take a stand. And if that's what humanity is turning into, then I'm glad I'm dead. Because if we've reached the point where we aren't willing to help the truly oppressed because of whom we might piss off, then we don't deserve the rank of developed species. The greatest of human abilities isn't the Warp Five engine or the transporter, or the protein re-sequencer; it's compassion. The ability not only to sympathise with someone's situation, but the willingness to do something to improve it. The Vulcans may claim that logical thought is the way to go, but if you tried that in humans all you'd get is a race of outright psychopaths. You remember my list of heroes?"
"Jesus, Ghandi, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and Mother Theresa. With Pope John Paul II, President James Carter, and Trevor Linden on the reserve list." He'd always wondered about the last one. He'd run a search of every data bank he could find and the only Trevor Linden of note he discovered was an early 21st century hockey player. Hardly in the same league, forgiving the pun.
"Do you know what they all had in common? They all did things to improve life for others around them, even though they didn't have to. My first stringers were all fighting society when they did it too. They saw something that was wrong and said 'I don't care what your culture says, I say differently.' Without them, I doubt humanity would have survived."
"Trevor Linden?" He couldn't help himself, he had to ask.
"The hockey player? You know how kids look up to sports heroes."
He nodded. It didn't sound like Toby, but everyone could be forgiven a quirk.
"Well so did he, so he spent a lot of time with sick kids that were in the hospital. A lot of them were dying and a chance to meet somebody like that was one of the nicest things ever to happen to them. And he didn't just do it once or twice, either. He would go in to see them lots of times. He didn't do it for publicity, either, he did it because he knew it would make them feel better." She softened a little, "so that's why I've got him there. He wasn't the only one, but… I don't know. Just for some reason I liked what I read about the guy.
"My point is, that everybody on that list, on both of those lists was a compassionate caring person. They didn't ignore pain or injustice, even if it would have been easier, or more politically expedient. They didn't just say it's not my problem. Instead they said it is my problem, because we're all part of this universe together." She began pacing the room, hypnotizing him. "And you know, even if Archer wants to argue that point, he's still a fucking hypocrite. He wants to talk cultural diversity? Tell him to check in closer to home."
"Excuse me?" He hadn't expected this twist. He half wanted to jump in to defend Archer, but survival instinct said otherwise. This was Toby to the core: aggressively protecting her loved ones from anyone who would hurt them.
"Like he showed any respect for your cultural background. You're Southern, Trip. We don't forgive easy, especially our own mistakes. We were brought up on anti-slavery the same way he was brought up on cookies and milk. If he thinks you're supposed to ignore that just because you're part of the bigger culture called 'human', then he's the one in the wrong job, because starship captain is no place for someone that dense or that naïve. And if he can't think for himself without consulting the Vulcan playbook for his actions, then he shouldn't be out here as our chief representative either." She lowered her voice, slowed down. "I'm sorry if I'm destroying your illusions of him as the second coming, but as long as you keep comparing yourself to this ideal you have of him, you'll never measure up. And believe me, you're better than that."
He sighed. "Even working by that, I still didn't do things right, Toby. I told her I'd protect her, but when push came to shove, I buckled. Same thing with you."
"Me?" She stopped dead, one foot still in the air. "What have I got to do with anything?"
"If I'd been there for you, when you needed me, nothing would have happened to you. I was so wrapped up in myself that I didn't…that I never saw how much you needed me. I took so much of you for granted, all you ever did for me I took for granted. Then when it came time for me to pay back…"
"Oh, Trip, Trip, Trip. You crazy pig-headed fool. Is that what you've been thinking?" She scooted back under the desk with him, put her arms around him and laid her head on his shoulder. "You aren't responsible for stuff like that. You can't be blamed for not knowing the future. Both of us, me and Charles, we both made our own decisions. I didn't have to try to hitchhike my way home that night – especially while wearing black -- and don't think I didn't know how dangerous it could be. And if she was as smart as you say, well I'm sure she knew exactly what she was doing. You can't blame yourself because someone does something that ends in his or her tragedy. Otherwise you're just trying to play God." Her hand brushed over his cheek, but was unable to remove the tears. "You…you are the most amazing person I ever could have met, you know that? You are the only person who took me as I was, instead of trying to pigeonhole me as the baby genius or too incredibly strange for words. And that's one of the rarest things in the world. I'll bet you're like that even now: friends with the people least likely to have them."
He thought for a moment about Malcolm, how he'd never fit in even with his own family. "They've always come to me. Like you did. Left on my own I don't think I'd have any friends."
She shook her head. "Not true. People come to you because they know – deep down – that you won't turn them away just because they're different. That you're probably the best person they'll ever know. Even if you don't let them close enough to see inside."
"You did."
"I know. But you've never done it again since, have you. You're afraid that if people know about your darkness that they won't like you any more, aren't you? You care so much about other people, that won't let them care about you, because you think that it would be more trouble for them than it's worth."
"Yeah." He tried to make a joke of it. "But like you said, I'm Southern. We are nothing if not polite."
"Goddamn fucking shit you're polite." They both cracked up at that one, too true a description of the way he tended to speak. Maybe this catharsis could work after all. "The point is, Trip, that you've got friends. And they do care about you. You're just going to have to learn to live with that. Your friend outside the gym? I bet he knows all about your dark side, but it hasn't gotten rid of him, has it?"
[Malcolm pointing a phase pistol at him, threatening to shoot. Telling Trip that he – Malcolm – would rather die beside him than let Trip die alone. ]
"He knows enough, I guess. But I don't think…"
"It makes you human, Trip. Just because you can go down farther and faster than most isn't a bad thing. It's just because you're so passionate. You feel with your heart, and soul, and every nerve in your body. DaVinci, Michelangelo, Einstein, Zephram Cochran, they were all like that. They changed the world, and most people would say it was for the better. You could do great things, my friend, but only if you let yourself do them. And you're not going to do that as long as you think that you're not worth the time. All that love you've got for other people? Spare a little for the guy you say keeps screwing things up. Be patient with him, be kind." She gestured to a box under his bed, the one holding his drawing supplies, the Go board and tiles, all his bad poetry. " ´Cause all he gets is that one little box out of all the rest of your life. Do you remember what Dupin said made the minister an especially dangerous foe?"
"The fact that he was a poet and a mathematician. According to Dupin that meant that the minister was not only logical, but capable of creative leaps as well." He'd loved the Dupin stories, though he'd never said so, because the puzzles were so complex, the solutions so obvious.
"He could see the world from a different angle, catch the details that everyone else missed. You've got that too, Trip. I'll bet it's no coincidence that they couldn't get the NX project to work before you came on board. I'll bet that it's as much your engine as anyone else's."
Now that was going too far. True, he'd worked out a few of the minor glitches, tweaked a couple of things, but other than that…
"…all for the want of a horseshoe nail. Don't underestimate the little things, Trip. Too many people do, they think a big problem has to have a big solution. It's a major breakdown, or a total crash; they never want to believe that it can be as simple as pushing the on button."
His lips twitched into a smile at the shared joke. She'd gone around the bend once, trying to figure out why an experiment wouldn't work, checking connections and wires, testing the batteries, adjusting every little piece. Finally, he'd reached past her shoulder and flipped a switch. The device sprang to life, working perfectly. The look she'd given him was priceless; it still amused him just to think about it.
He felt the tension, the pain, leaving him, taking with it the last of his energy. His eyes no longer wanted to stay open, but he didn't want to sleep, didn't want to lose this. If he started feeling better, would Toby be gone? He'd forgotten how good it felt to have a real best friend, one who knew you better than you knew yourself. Someone to whom you could confess anything, and who wouldn't think the worse of you for it. Who'd back you even if they thought you were wrong, simply because you were their friend, which meant far more than any other truth. Someone who could look at all that bad in you and say, "So what if he's a serial murderer, he always rescues lost kittens." and think that the small kindness made up for anything else. "I love you, Toby." The words he'd never been able to say, always been afraid she'd take them the wrong way and think he meant as a girlfriend, or a sister. But he loved her as a friend; in a way he could never love a lover or his family.
"I know you do, Trip. I love you, too. And I'll always be here, I promise." She tapped his chest just over his heart. "Kindred spirits never leave, no matter what happens to the rest of us. But it's lonely here, sometimes; you might want to let someone else in again one day. Maybe not right now, but one day." She leaned over and kissed his temple as his eyes closed into sleep.
He woke to an empty room, his muscles cramping from his unusual posture. Someone had tucked his pillow under his head, cushioning it from the side of the desk. Toby? The doorbell still hung out of the wall, so it was unlikely anybody else had managed to get in. The lights were back up to full power, and the chill from last night was gone. Had last night really happened? Or had he been dreaming, sleepwalked under the desk?
His stomach grumbled, telling him that it was definitely hungry now, and would he please feed it. His mouth felt sticky, badly in need of a toothbrush, and he could certainly use a shower.
An hour later, he walked out – showered, shaved and brushed – heading for the mess hall. A peaceful calm fell over him, and he hummed to himself, the words he'd found on his console running over in his head.
Life is waiting for you/It's all messed up but we're alive/Oh, life is waiting for you/ it's all messed up but we'll, oh we'll survive.[2]
[1] From You've Got To Stand For Somethin' by John Cougar Mellencamp off the album Scarecrow
[2] from "Life" by Our Lady Peace, available on the Men With Brooms soundtrack.