Disclaimer: I do not own most of these characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.
Author's Note: A special thank-you to Drogna whose work helped return me to a darkly philosophical state of mind. Believe me, it's a compliment. Go read her stuff. Please. Also, thank you so much to my beta readers – gaianarchy and silvershadowfire. Without you, there would have been much bigger holes.
Warning: Science/religion discussion coming up. Dogmatics need not apply.
Chapter 8: Horseshoe Nails
Even a god cannot change the past.
---Agathon
… and all for the want of a horseshoe nail.
---For the Want of a Nail. (Traditional)
Either he's dead… or my watch has stopped.
--- Groucho Marx
"Care to enlighten me?" Jonathan moved up beside him and angled himself to look directly at Trip.
"I can't. Not right now. It's… it's something I'm working on. I…I think I've got it figured out, but there's still details. And whether I'm right or wrong… we've still got to get this ship operational."
Jonathan kept staring at him, as though he could divine the answers from Trip's face.
Maybe he could. If I was his Trip. Besides, he was still working on it. It's just a theory at this stage.
Oh, God. This isn't one of those theories.
Well, yeah. What other kind of theory could he come up with in a screwed up situation like this? He knew what Inner-Charles meant, however. The type of theory that ended up with Trip taking some insane risk because he thought it was right. But there were times when you just had to ignore your cautious side and leap in with both feet. Times like now.
He could feel Kaci staring at him too, but something told him she was closer to figuring it out than Jonathan. She had the quicker mind – she was an engineer who first saw major tech at seventeen. It was no surprise that she could figure out what he had. Part of it is being an engineer. Jonathan was a pilot and pilots saw things differently from engineers. But Kaci…
He caught her eye and she nodded. So she had figured it out. And she knew he didn't want to tell Jonathan.
Now why is that?
Maybe I just don't want to say it aloud. If anybody's listening… Or maybe it was simply the fact that saying it aloud would prove how stupid it sounded. He needed more proof… exactly how he was going to get it was another problem. I don't even know what I need for proof.
The turbolift finally reached them. Damn it's slow. He couldn't help but wonder if that was simply a symptom of the bigger problems on the ship, or if it was a deliberate act on someone else's part.
We're not at all paranoid, are we?
"Not in the least." Funny how sarcastic you could get, even with yourself. He punched in the command to take them to the bridge – the next best place to engineering to do the work he had to do. Except…
"Fuck it." Jonathan and Kaci watched as Trip entered a new destination, in the opposite direction. "If they came for us in engineering, where do you think they'd expect us to go next?"
"The bridge," Jonathan acknowledged. "It's where anyone would go. Where else…"
"Oh, just a little place that came to mind one day. We never did take all the wiring out… and with the engines down it's not like it's dangerously hot up there. And it's hooked up to all the major…"
"The catwalk." Jonathan caught on and gave Trip a gentle smile. "I must admit, it's not something that came to mind…"
"Oh, so you guys did that too, huh?" Trip felt slightly disappointed. It would've been nice to be the only guy in the multi-verse who thought that hiding in a furnace would be a good idea.
Absolutely no ego, either. Okay, so it had been a vain hope…
That's bad, Tucker. Very bad. Trip chuckled at Inner-Charles' response.
"What?" Jonathan raised an eyebrow. It was only fair that he couldn't understand, being outside the joke.
"Just a habit of mine. Bad puns." Jonathan still looked puzzled, so Trip elaborated. "Ego-trip. Vain hope."
"Mmnhm." Jonathan smiled again, this time with more amusement behind it. "Ego-Trip, huh?"
Trip laughed harder. "Not you, too. It's bad enough listening to me come up with them. I don't need help." He nearly leaned back against the turbolift wall, and then stopped. A shiver ran through him at the thought, at the memory of his dream. One came true… or at least aspects… Cautiously he reached towards the wall…
{TRIP! OMIGOD, NO! DON'T TOUCH THAT!} Toby screamed in his ear, her voice drenched in panic. He jerked his hand back and stared at her. Then he pulled out a scanner and ran it over the wall.
Holy shit. More than a hundred amperes of current ran through that wall…seventy milliamperes – less than a thousandth of that – could kill a person instantly. I've already died enough for one lifetime.
"Thanks, Tob." He looked to the others. "Don't anybody touch the walls, okay? Especially not that one. You thought I looked fried before…" He'd have been burned to a crisp if he touched that thing. And now aren't you glad you remember your dreams?
"How…" Jonathan looked down at the read-out on the scanner and then up at Trip.
"Damfino. There's no way that thing should be carrying that much current. And don't ask me why it hasn't arced out and fried us anyway. That thing is pure hot lightning." Hot lightning – the continuing current after the first quick stroke – did all the damage, starting fires and barbecuing living creatures. And people think Florida is all surf and sun. They forgot about the hurricanes and the thunderstorms that moved in to remind residents that Paradise still belonged to God. Hell, his first science project had been on lightning, and he still loved to stand and watch the sky let loose an unmatchable light show. I just don't like it being this close.
He turned around slowly to check the rest of the walls. "Oh, fuck."
Jonathan closed his eyes. "Don't tell me."
"All of them. The ceiling too. We're just damn lucky it's not the floor." Trip decided to ignore Jonathan's order. It's not like he's my captain. Besides… it was rhetorical.
I take it back: you're not paranoid.
"Hmn?"
Look, moron. If the walls and the ceiling are hot but the floor isn't… how can that be accidental? On the other hand, it does keep you nicely trapped in here, meaning that you can't do any more damage. And in answer to your other question… whoever did this probably grounded everything out … just like an old fashioned electric fence. It won't arc out… but it will keep you neatly contained for however long they want to keep you here. So unless you've got any bright ideas…
"I suppose we could look on the bright side and assume that if this is intentional, then whoever is doing it isn't trying to kill us." Jonathan moved into the centre of the turbolift and Trip could see the sweat beading on the other man's brow.
"Yeah, I guess you could take that as a comfort." Trip hitched up his jeans slightly and settled down cross-legged on the floor. The last thing he needed to do right now was fall over, and it was less likely to happen if he didn't remain standing.
Kaci flicked her gaze past his shoulder to where Toby still stood, then over at the wall. Then she joined Trip on the floor and tugged on Jonathan's pant leg.
"I don't…"
"It's better than standing there so stiff that a breeze could topple you." Trip smirked. "Low centre of gravity. Much more stable. You tall people never seem to understand that."
"I thought you said you tripped and fell over the Crewman, here." Slowly, Jonathan lowered himself until he was seated beside them. "I've always been afraid of stuff like that. I saw someone get electrocuted once… worse than you did… it wasn't pretty."
"No," Trip agreed, "It's not. But just because I have inner-ear and coordination problems does not mean that the laws of physics have taken a holiday." He watched, fascinated, as Toby walked over to the turbolift doors and reached towards them. She was funky on those phase-pistol batteries. I wonder what this is going to do. It probably wouldn't harm her… she lived off energy, didn't she? It certainly seemed to make her stronger. Just don't let her go bashing things again. That was one thing… how was he going to explain the damage to the sickbay doors to Phlox? Or to anyone else for that matter?
And here come the gentlemen with the nice white coats and the jacket with the extra-long arms, just for you. Can't you just hear Archer now: 'Right, Trip, a ghost did it. A ghost who just happens to be your old childhood friend, and whose death you still feel somewhat responsible for. Tell me, how long have you been seeing and hearing people who aren't there?'
"Kaci can see her." He spoke inaudibly, the words barely leaving his throat.
Ah, but do you know she's real? He could hear the hint of amusement in his inner-voice, mocking him and his dark obsession.
That's the problem with knowing too much about mental illness. You start to see it in every shadow. Still, he had to operate on the premise that he wasn't truly insane, at least until someone showed him enough evidence to the contrary. Or he did something so incredibly nuts that even he couldn't pass it off as 'it sounded like a good idea at the time.' And if I'm that far gone… I probably won't recognise it, or care anyway. The fact that he did care – he clung to it like a lifeline. At least it gives me a moral compass to work with… last week's movie floated back to him …even if it doesn't point north.
Electric blue – what else could it be – light danced around Toby's fingertips, sparking at first, then becoming the swirling mix of purple, red and green that defined her. Then something popped and Trip smelled smoke, half blinded by the sudden flash.
{Well, that's one down.} She pulled back and moved over to the next wall. {You know, I could end up blowing this whole damn thing up. I mean it's not like I'm an expert on this sort of thing… and there is that nasty little first law of thermodynamics to consider… the one that says you can't destroy energy? We may have somewhat disproved Einstein, but last I checked, Meyer was still valid.}
"Ah, but Toby, that assumes a closed system." There was nothing else he could do, so he might as well needle his best friend. "I think we've had enough evidence today to prove that the system isn't closed." He glanced over at Jonathan. "In fact, I think we've cracked it wide open."
{Oh, so now you're the expert on Universal Theory, huh? You want to come over here and stick your hand on this wall and see what happens?}
"I thought you weren't ready for me to die, just yet. And I think I've grown past the point of you talking me into crazy adventures." No, he hadn't, but he wasn't going to give her any encouragement. I'm not ready to bet my neck on these shoelaces.
He glanced at Jonathan again and instantly regretted his banter. The other man sat with his eyes closed, still incredibly tense.
"Hey. It's all right. I've got a good feeling about this." Trip reached over and picked up Jonathan's wrist. The man's pulse raced and Trip could see that his breathing was shallow and quick. Uh, oh.
"Um..." He tried to think of something to say or do. I don't need him having a panic attack. "I… um…" He took Jonathan's hand between both of his own, a little shocked at how cold it was. He began rubbing it rapidly, to bring circulation back into the fingers. "Hey. We're going to be fine. It's cool. She knows what she's doing. And… and I don't think I've had my life spared this much today just to die sitting in a turbolift. Hey, if I can climb three decks straight up a ladder… you can make it through this." He felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to stand up as Toby went to work on the second wall. It felt strange… him being the one to calm down Archer. Now I'm doing it. No, this was Jonathan, not Archer. Keep it straight. Treacherously, his mind latched onto the pun in that statement, nearly setting off a case of the giggles. The joke was beneath him, which only told him how stressed out he really was..
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Toby had tried to hypnotize him once… she'd claimed it worked, and he said it hadn't. Still, the relaxation techniques did work, when he thought to use them. Focus on the breathing. Keep it controlled. How often had he heard that advice? Whether from his football coach or his diving instructor; even Nathan had given him the same counsel. Focus and breathe. Hell, Hess told him all the time that breathing was the most important part of anything.
"Breathe," he murmured, realising that Jonathan could use the same advice. "Just breathe. Nice and calm and slow. It's okay. It's all going to be okay."
Who are you trying to convince?
"Hush." Hopefully Jonathan wouldn't take that as criticism directed at him. "We're going to be just fine. Just breathe, okay? That's it."
"Odd." Jonathan's voice was strained, but Trip could still hear the humour behind it.
"What?" Warmth was slowly seeping back into Jonathan's fingers. Good. The man was calming down, then.
"You comforting me. Doesn't it work the other way around?"
Now Trip did laugh. "I was just thinking the same thing. Who'da thunk? Trip Tucker -- stress management expert. Though, given the amount I cause, I should know a little bit about it. Either that, or be on the payroll of a headache remedy company."
"Let me guess… were it not for your brilliance in Engineering, you would've been kicked out of Starfleet a long time ago." Now dryness crept into the tone, another good sign.
"Several times over. Besides stealing the NX prototype, there were a few other… incidents that could be conceived as severe violations of protocol, and/or the rules. However, I will not elaborate further without the presence of my lawyer." Given that she'd caused a few of them… it probably wasn't fair to elaborate without her anyway. "Let's just say Captain Jeffries used to wince at the sight of me." Part of that came from telling Jeffries what to do… something senior officers never appreciated. Even Archer didn't like it – even if he did tend to bow to Trip's expertise.
"That bad, huh?" Jonathan's breathing came much steadier now, as Toby moved over to the third wall.
"I keep an erratic work schedule. It bothered him." It wasn't so much his assigned shifts that were the problem – he showed up for all of those. It was the off hours work that drove Jeffries crazy – the times he'd show up at midnight and let himself in to tweak a couple of components or re-write a single line of code. Or he'd stay well into the next shift, obsessing over a single mechanism and defying anyone to touch it. In Jeffries' opinion, it was a sign of lack of discipline. However, even he knew it would be hard to prosecute someone for working extra-hard. "He didn't care much for my choice of friends, either."
"Oh?" Jonathan opened his eyes now, and gave Trip an odd look. "Such as?"
"Well, Hess, for one. Even Archer doesn't understand the two of us." It helped that Hess was a fellow Southerner -- from Georgia, sure, but Southern nonetheless – and was virtually impossible to offend. "She didn't exactly impress him… which is why he put her with me to start with. Then there's the fact that I hung out more with the beach crowd… most of whom are non-conformists – except for when it comes to each other. Throw in the fact that I lived with a bunch of artists and hackers – some of whom were serious anarchists – and you can pretty much guarantee that Jeffries and I were not going to see eye to eye. Unfortunately for him, he could never fault my work…"
"But he liked the quiet, by-the-book discipline that you've never mastered."
"Yeah. Me or her. Then again… when you're facing the unknown, you can't rely on a book." Robinson had said the same thing to Archer, once. Back when Archer had been closer in temperament to Jeffries than he'd ever want to admit. "I don't know how many things I've had to make up because I nobody else had ever done them before." What book – for example – covered situations like this?
What to do when you're sitting on a seriously crippled ship, stranded between dimensions, with an alternate-version of your captain, a seriously silent crewman and your very weird dead-best-friend. Yeah, I know they thought of that one in the tactical sessions.
"It must have been hard on you, too. Knowing that you could wind up cashiered at any given moment."
Trip shrugged. "That's the risk I take, being me. I try to compromise where I can… but a lot of that, I just don't care about. I figure there's more important things to worry about than whether someone's hair is purple or green. If they can accomplish what I need them to… I can put up with a lot. I guess I expect the same level of respect from other people, and if they can't give it, I don't figure it's my problem. I've always been able to walk away." From anything, whether it be jobs, or relationships, or even old friends. When the situation became untenable… "I've always been able to do it."
Jonathan shook his head. "Just walk away. So if Archer or Forrest, or somebody came to you tomorrow and said: 'Shape up, or ship out…'"
"Well, then find me a ride home. I'm not saying it doesn't hurt… but wounds heal. Maybe not completely, but they heal. If it's a choice between making someone happy, or being me…" He had been given that ultimatum once; by an Arts major he'd dated for about four months. He'd insulted her friends – annoyed at how they thought they knew everything, when they didn't even know what they were talking about – and she'd told him either to apologise to them, or leave. She'd found everything she'd ever left at his place – a prelude to moving in – boxed up and left on her doorstep the next day. Not only that, but he had a new apartment and a new contact number within a week. He'd left home for two months when he was fifteen, too, simply because his father made the same threat: My house, my rules. If you don't like it here, leave. It was the one point he never bluffed on.
"I thought you said you'd give in to Captain Archer on anything." Apparently Jonathan had Archer's memory for conversation.
"Anything but that. If it comes down to sticking around and sacrificing 'Me' or walking… it's one foot in front of the other, baby and don't look back." He'd come close, but fortunately the words had never been spoken. If he'd said it…
"And in return…"
"And in return, I don't give a crap about a lot of the things other people do, provided they do their job, or don't get in the way of me and mine. I mean, some things bother me – if they're serious enough – but most of it I could care less about."
Jonathan looked like he was about to say something, but Toby beat him to it.
"All done. Except for the ceiling, of course, but I don't think you want to use that, anyway." As Jonathan paled, Trip realised that Toby was audible to him again. The dangers of handing power to a teenager. Still, she was the one who made this jailbreak possible.
"Hard adjustment, huh?" While Trip could sympathise, he also itched to get back to work. All it takes is a re-alignment of your beliefs. To a guy raised on science – like Trip himself had been – the sudden intrusion of spiritualism came, usually, as a severe shock. Ghosts are unproven, so…it was often hard to discover that the superstitious folks were right.
But so hard to deny the evidence. Toby left behind tangible proof of her presence all the time. Cold spots in a climate controlled, sealed, environment. Mysteriously fused components, or – in rare cases like what happened earlier – damage that could have been done by no living human source. To deny it would be to deny his own scientific nature. An old conversation came floating back -- the type that could only be had on a hot summer night between two close friends who knew better than to take offence.
[ "How can you look up at that, and not believe?" Toby stretched out on the two-by-eights they'd nailed in to form the floor of their treehouse and pointed up at the canopy of stars that formed – for now – the roof.
Trip sat down on the ground, grateful that she hadn't insisted on him accompanying her up there. "Believe what? I believe that there's a lot to explore out there… but what are you expecting me to believe in?"
"The Universe. God. Everything. How can you look at that and still not believe?" Her arm dropped, but her eyes stayed fixed on whatever wonder she could see out there.
"Toby. You don't need God to be able to explain that. It's all atoms and quarks and energy. The stars aren't windows to Heaven, they're giant fusion reactors. There's no magic to it… it's just science."
"So… what you need is proof."
He sighed, not out of frustration, or even weariness, but out of the sheer pleasure of being able to be here and have a conversation like this. Nobody but Toby realised the enjoyment he got out of discussing matters in the philosophical realm as opposed to the hard stats of science and sport. They think I'm a mechanic, or a jock. They don't expect anything else from me. Toby did, though, and she challenged him constantly. "Proof would be nice, yes."
"Do you believe in the existence of quarks, atoms and DNA?" Where was this going? She damn well knew he did.
"Of course. They've all been proven…"
"Have you ever seen one? With your own eyes, and without the help of a computer? You know enough about programming to know that a computer can show any image it's told to. How then, is it any more valid than the evidence of spirit collected over the years? Ever since photography was invented, people have been taking pictures of ghosts. Sure, some of them were fakes, and some were just quirks of the film, but some – even with all our technological advances – still haven't been shown to be anything other than what they appear to be. But you'll ignore those, and believe in the crafted images of a DNA double-helix or a steel molecule."
"I…" He'd never thought of it that way. All the textbooks and teachers said these things were real… and he'd always believed that. But for centuries people did the same thing and called it God. They'd fought wars in its name… schismed and debated and tried to tell people the 'right' way to live They'd had textbooks to explain it: the Bible, the Torah, the Koran… the list was endless. Just like the number of science texts out there. Everybody had a slightly different theory… but how was that different from the scientists? And science -- as much as any religious sect – fought viciously against the iconoclasts, the ones with the new ideas. Science, he suddenly realised, was it's own religion – albeit a religion of numbers and replicatable experiments. They still had a god, but called him Evidence, Proof and Reliable Results. A trinity of Data cloaked in the mantle of Progress and Enlightenment. The scientists were the new priests, the guardians of knowledge. They alone decided what the populace would hear, and what was too dangerous for them to know.
"So you're saying…"
"I'm saying that just because you can't see it, doesn't mean it isn't real. And no matter how good our science and technology have gotten, they still haven't managed to disprove the spirit." He heard her shift above him, but the boards sounded solid. Good. He'd designed it well, then.
"You can't prove a negative, Toby." It was a point that got him in trouble with some people. "Lack of evidence is not evidence of lack?" It should have been her line in this conversation, not his.
"Okay, then. Why does it work?"
He sighed again, and started to lay out a basic framework. Gravity, space and planetary orbits…
"No," she interrupted him impatiently. "I don't want to know how it works, Trip, I want to know why."
"Excuse me?" He blinked, trying to sort out where he'd gone wrong.
"See, that's where science gets you. Science tells you the hows – how disease is spread, how the warp engine works, how flamingos can stand on one leg… but it doesn't tell you anything about the whys."
"And you're trying to say that the why is God." It always seemed like such a cop-out to him. 'We can't explain it, so it must be due to a higher power.' "Does there have to be a why?" It was their favourite game: Devil's Advocates. He liked it because it forced him to think on lines away from the usual – and sometimes to question his own beliefs. If he'd never met her, such questioning would have been profoundly uncomfortable. It still was uncomfortable… but sometimes it was necessary. Being able to do it back to her made the discomfort worthwhile.
"Not if you're a post-modernist," she admitted. "But then you're just sort of giving up on everything, aren't you?"
"I thought that was the existentialists."
"Only because Sartre was such a gloomy son-of a bitch. Existentialism is a lot more complicated than that. Okay, so the phenomenologists claim not to care about why either… but they don't deny that unreplicatable things exist." She didn't elaborate further, but when he looked into it he discovered he practically was an existentialist. The acceptance of responsibility, the idea that choice was always available, even the fact that choice created stress… he knew all of those things to be true, even if there wasn't any proof. He had trouble with phenomenology… but nobody's perfect.
"Okay, so, assuming there is a God, what do you think the 'why' is?" He knew she didn't have an answer… who could?
"Do you really think our puny, self-centred minds could handle it? We – as a species – spent centuries thinking we were the centre of the universe. Before the Vulcans landed – hell, after the Vulcans landed – there were people who still didn't believe there was life beyond Earth. Oddly enough… a great many of them were science-types. They couldn't fathom that a warp reactor could work – breaks the laws of physics, dontcha know – and they couldn't keep up."
"And you're saying a religious person could." How ridiculous was that? Trip shook his head, even though she couldn't see him. Religion was famed for its inability to keep up: look what happened when Darwin hit.
"No… because religion, whether it's 'God-based' or 'Data-based' is about rules and control. It doesn't leave room for faith. Those are the people who can keep up… the ones who don't need proof, and can accept that there are things that can never be known."
"Faith in what? You're still coming back around to something religious… or are you saying there should be no rules?" Mankind needed rules, even if only to have something to fight against. How would I know who I was, if I wasn't fighting something?
"Guidelines, yes. But when you think about it… the greatest rule ever handed down – admittedly used now in a religious context – was antithetical to rules: 'Judge not, lest ye be judged?' It totally disallows any infringement on other peoples' behaviour."
" 'Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.'" Trip threw a quote back at her. "I'd hardly class you as the 'non-judgemental' type. And are you saying that we shouldn't prosecute… say… a mass murderer, because we don't have the right?"
" 'Even the Devil can quote scripture to serve his own purposes.'" From her reply, he knew he'd scored a hit. "The main thing the rule was aimed at was all our petty little judgements we make as human beings. 'Oh, Tommy didn't go to church, or Betsy cut class today and was seen smoking. They must be bad people.' Nobody's purely good, or purely evil. Shades of Grey." The intonation on the last phrase told him it was a song title – Toby's short-hand communication.
"Then… how can you say my lack of 'faith' is wrong?" He made sure the quotations sounded around the word. "If you're so non-judgmental, and all."
"I just think you're closing yourself off to so many possibilities, Trip. Look. You love Bernini, right? Yet most of his works were profoundly spiritual: angels, saints – even his 'pagan' works had an element of the spiritual about them. Yet you sit there and tell me that there's no evidence of a soul."
"Life after Death. Do you really believe that, Toby? That there's something beyond this? That there's greater consequences?"
"You know I do, Trip. I told you the day we met that I believed in reincarnation… which incidentally fits neatly in with the first law of Thermodynamics… what I don't believe in is death itself. 'I am merely a spirit, trapped in matter,'" She quoted, but he had no idea from where. "This, as you so neatly referred to it, is the greatest impediment we have."
"Yeah, well, I'll tell you what. Whoever dies first can prove to the other that they're wrong. You go, and you can haunt me for the rest of my life, just to say I told you so. I go, and my non-existent spirit will leave you alone." He could never imagine her dying – Toby was a force of nature. She'd defy Death himself, just because he was trying to make her do something. Nope… Toby was never going to die. No way.]
"Were you planning to go, or just sit there, thinking?" Jonathan's voice returned Trip to the present. Stepping back from the hole he and Kaci had created in the floor, Trip gestured for Jonathan to go first.
"No longer taking the lead?" Even though Jonathan's tone was teasing, Trip could tell the other man was eager to escape their prison.
"You can catch me when I slip." Trip kept his tone as dry as possible, though there was truth in the sentiment. Given the choice, he'd much rather have someone else go first. Otherwise I'd have to choose between going down there, or sitting here. Now that would be a choice to cause stress in a highly responsible, and terminally restless acrophobic.
Some things about the existentialist philosophy still bothered him, especially after years of Life to think about it in. Like how could illness – any illness –be a choice? When did anybody come up to you and say: 'Hi, how would you like your brain to operate from an alternate reality from now on?' No, stuff like that just happened, it was pre-programmed into your genes. Not a certainty of insanity – not even the almighty DNA could ensure that – but a pre-disposition that any number of environmental factors could set off. And without knowing what those factors were… it was a problem with the theory that he and Toby both shared: How can you say it's purely free will when you don't have all the information to base your choice on? If you knew the brakes on the bus would cut out… wouldn't it change your decision to step out into the street?
"Commander," Jonathan's voice echoed up from below. "You might want to consider coming with us."
"Sorry, just stressing over a decision." He caught Toby's sudden chuckle and knew she'd figured out what he'd been thinking about. "I'm just hoping that we won't get hit by a bus."
"Don't say that, you'll tempt the Universe." The sound of Jonathan repeating one of Trip's favourite phrases caused its own set of laughs.
"Yes, sir. Stopping temptation now, sir." Unlike his earlier emphasis on the honorific, this one carried humour. Humour that made it so much easier for him to stick a foot through the hole and onto the ladder. After that, it was just a matter of one foot after the other.
Up in the nacelle, he booted up a console again. The same scramble appeared in the same bright pink. He found himself growing used to it and entertained a mild thought about switching things over permanently. Nah. Hess would love it, but I think Malcolm would kill me if he had to work in an armoury bathed in pink. Still… that would be something to save up for some boring day when the armoury officer was getting on his nerves again.
Hmn. How to get in? Obviously with something that would convince these little monsters that he was indeed Charles ''Levin' Tucker III and not some talented impostor. He doubted 'knock-knock' would work again… not with Gina's paranoid nature when it came to her programs. She could give Malcolm lessons. That was the one thing that gave him what patience he did have when dealing with Malcolm on another one of his be careful trips: the knowledge that it could always be worse. At least he doesn't pull me out of bed at four in the morning to discuss an idea. Part of the program in front of him was his own work… freely given in exchange for Gina's tolerance of him and his. After James, I owed her. But only Gina knew the whole of the work. Ironically though, given the nature of his employment, she trusted him with more than most. 'Knowing the line between loyalty and foolishness' she called it, once. Another was 'Understanding that there are more angles, more dimensions than the obvious.'
And sometimes it is obvious. The best way to prove he was – well, him – would be to do something so undeniably Trip/'Levin Tuckerish that it could only be him doing it.
Look, you little sons-of-bitches, he typed, I want into my goddamned computer, so get out of my goddamned way you fuzzy bastards. He could practically sense Jonathan's eyes widening behind him.
" 'Levin, is it really you?" This time the voice from the speakers sounded surprised and eager.
Of course it's me you stupid moron, who were you expecting? Fucking Santa Claus? Give me a fucking break.
There was a pause, and he wondered if he misjudged. Then the voice returned, this time with a hint of humour behind it.
"Is that enough time, 'Levin? We know you can be quick."
He nearly doubled over with laughter. Trust Gina to get them to take that literally. Still, he felt the need to respond.
Not that quick. I PREFER to take my time at it, you know. Okay, so he was debating with digital bunnies, but these were the types of conversations he and Gina had all the time: filled with insults and double-entendres, none of which were meant to be taken seriously.
You know, we're looking at a pattern here.
Maybe, he told himself, but I hardly think this is the time to be discussing my relationships with women. Mostly because the pattern was depressing. Damn depressing.
Instantly the air was filled with a million giggles. "Good for you, 'Levin, now what were you wanting?"
Status.
"All killed, 'Levin. Bad, bads all dead. 'Portant stuff chewed."
Thank you.
"Welcome, 'Levin. More?"
Control.
Suddenly the lights flickered and dimmed. " 'Levin…" Warning was clear in the tone. " 'Levin no want us to go away now. We no want to go away now. We like here. 'Levin not do that to us."
NOW! He added the exclamation mark to emphasise his intent. That had been one of his ideas… to make the program understand the meaning behind punctuation and case, not just recognise a difference. He hadn't expected Gina to take him seriously… he hadn't even expected her to finish this. He recognised something else, too. These critters' personalities had been based on his, in his childish modes. The mode he so often inhabited during those four a.m. sessions when all he wanted to do was sleep. Cranky.
A figure resolved on the screen, its rabbity face twisted into a pout. "No. Don't want to. Make us."
Bunnies… He hoped they'd pick up on the warning inherent in that statement.
"What's our real name, then, 'Levin? What's our real, secret name? Not going away without."
God, what would you name a bunch of psycho bunnies? Well, what do bunnies do? Breathe… eat… and… "Replicate."
"Excuse me?" Jonathan looked at him expectantly. "You want them to…"
"No, no. They do replicate. They're rabbits, and more than that they're a self-replicating anti-viral program with encryption capabilities. Part of the reason for the encryption is almost a vaccine procedure. It's hard for a targeted virus to take out certain files if those files no longer appear to exist. But how do rabbits replicate?"
"You need to ask me that?" Jonathan's smile showed more than a hint of mischief. "You…"
"I don't mean sex." Trip reached up and smacked him in the back of the head. "I mean mathematically – how do bunnies reproduce?"
Jonathan shook his head. "You've lost me."
"Fibonacci." Kaci answered for him, and Trip wondered why Toby hadn't beat her to it. Then he remembered: Hell, she probably can't get up here. The shielding kept out a lot of different energies… including ones like hers.
"Fibonacci?" Jonathan's eyebrows practically buried themselves in his hairline. "Who the hell is Fibo…"
"Are you sure your father was an engineer? How could you have spent that much time around math and not have heard of Fibonacci? The entire reason he invented the sequence was to calculate replication rates. 1,1,2,3,5,8,13… It was one of Gina's inspirations for the bunnies in the first place." Turning, he typed it into the computer.
"Awwww. You guessed. No fun. Are you sure, 'Levin? Y/N." He could swear he almost heard a sniffle in the voice. An almost pitiful pleading.
He moved his hand so Jonathan couldn't see what he was doing. The last thing he wanted was to spend a lot of time trying to defend what had to seem like a completely insane action. His finger plunged down to the keyboard, connecting not with the 'n', but the letter beside it. M. Maybe. In other words, maybe if they were good, they could stick around. What it really meant was that the program would run in the background and hunt and destroy any further intrusions. Because, clearly, the stuff we already have on here isn't doing a hell of a lot of good. Not only that, but there was a hell of a lot more to the program, capabilities that could prove useful down the line. I just won't tell Archer. Or Malcolm, for that matter: no sense telling a paranoid that you'd just installed some heavy-duty spyware on their system. Given that the only person it would report to would be him… It's not like I'm handing information to the enemy.
The lights brightened and the screen resolved in front of him, back to its normal blue on blue. "We're in." He looked at a readout on the screen. "Or rather, we will be in just over an hour." He settled back in his chair and prepared for a wait, picking up a pad and stylus to keep busy with. A moment later he found himself scribbling a list:
1) What kind of proof do I need?
2) How do I go about obtaining it?
3) How can I be sure the evidence is accurate?
4) What the hell am I trying to prove anyway?
5) Will it work?
Hmn. Better to ignore number 5 for now, or you'll never get to any of the others. It's not something you control, anyway.
He tapped the stylus against his teeth, thinking. Number five had to stay on the list, because he knew it was the lynchpin. I have to make them believe me, which means it has to be overwhelming proof, or something else entirely. They need to accept my authority on the subject – which won't be easy because they're all the acknowledged experts. His mind flashed again to the conversation Toby and he had had on faith. They're all scientists, more than anything. They believe science. Well, Sisko might be something else… but I'm sure he'll go for science too. Or…
That could work. If you pull it off.
"I wish Charles was more like you." Jonathan interrupted him again.
"Huh?" The sudden change in topic confused him. Not that it's hard. "I thought he was the man of your dreams."
Jonathan sighed. Trip could see this was hard for him, confessing a deeply hidden truth. So deeply hidden that he'd been hiding it from himself.
"He was. Now… I love him, but I'm not too sure how he feels about me. I've known for years that he's bi, but now… it seems like half the time he's with someone else. Then he'll be back for a bit… then he's gone again. And it's not just the women."
"Hence your concern that Toby was Crewman Lindekker." Trip understood now, and realised how painful his ramblings must have been. To hear the person you love murmuring somebody else's name… yeah, that hurt all right.
Jonathan nodded. "And he's been drinking and gambling a lot more than usual. We actually had an alien ship track Enterprise down and take some of her gear to cover debts he left behind on some planet. When I told him it had to stop…"
"He lost it," Trip finished. "Was that the first time…"
"He's been violent? Yes. But it gets worse, doesn't it? I'm so scared he's getting out of control, and I can't help him. Then running into you… and you were so concerned – even though you snapped at me once or twice – I thought maybe I'd gotten a miracle. That maybe…"
Trip sighed. Poor guy. "Still, you don't want him being like me. I mean aside from the part that I am not in the least bit attracted to you," as planned, that brought the hint of a smile to Jonathan's lips, "There's also a few other factors. Number one is I am a complete bastard…"
No argument here.
"… I don't conform to the rules…"
Yup.
"…I, too, am quite possibly a borderline alcoholic. I don't drink all the time, but I do drink at the worst of possible times – like when I'm stressed – and when I do drink it tends to be to excess if available…"
Tell me about it.
"…I tend to engage in irrational behaviour…"
Yeah, I can agree with that.
"… there's the possibility – given my family history – that I could go completely around the bend…"
Oh, don't go buying trouble with that.
"…and I have this insane desire to go base jumping."
WHAT?!!
"Just checking." Inner-Charles had been getting a little too supportive. Just need to know I haven't lost it yet.
"Excuse me?" Jonathan wrinkled his nose at the last one. "Checking what?"
"Oh, nothing. Just me." Trip shrugged. "See? You'd have to put up with all these weird conversational left turns. Not to mention the fact that I'm territorial. I mean there were spaces that even my closest girlfriends – few as they've been – didn't intrude on." He turned around to look at Jonathan and saw how tired the older man was. "We've got more than forty-five minutes left, why don't you go take a nap? I'll wake you if I need you."
Jonathan smiled as his own lecture turned around on him. "Okay. I'll do that. Night, Trip." He must have been tired, because he leaned in and dropped a gentle kiss on Trip's cheek. Trip waited until Jonathan moved farther along the catwalk and had settled down to sleep before pulling out a cloth and scrubbing at his face.
Not nice. Even as he did it, he chided himself. Jonathan was exhausted and not thinking clearly. He looked down at the cloth in his hand, an idea forming. But useful. Very useful. If what the scientists said was true, really was. I guess I'll just have to have a little faith.
Turning, he pulled up some files on the console, some of which had actually been restored. He glanced over at Jonathan to make sure he was still sleeping, then began to read.
A buzzer sounded a message, pulling him out of the file, then a message flashed on screen: All Done. He smiled and typed in a response. Thanks Guys. If Gina had made this program even half as sophisticated as he imagined, then not only could thanks not hurt, but there was a good chance that not doing so would breed resentment. And the last thing I want right now is for you guys to breed.
"Hey." Quietly he made his way down the catwalk and gave Jonathan a gentle shake. "Time to go."
Jonathan muttered something, but didn't otherwise move.
What do you think your name is? Elizabeth?
"Let's go, sunshine." Trip shook a little more firmly. "Time to get up and go. We've got a universe to save." Again he felt the weird sense of a role reversal.
Jonathan opened one eye and stared at him. "I don't think we're qualified to do that."
Trip shrugged. "Welcome to Engineering. We do stuff we're not qualified for every day. Hell, that's half the fun of it. You know: what happens if we press this button?"
"I swear, if there was a big red button labelled Universal Reset: Causes Big Bang, it's going to be one of you guys who hits it." Slowly Jonathan pushed himself into a sitting position, his muscles obviously stiff from his too-brief rest.
"I don't know. If it promises to blow something up, it might be an armoury officer." Trip reached down and grabbed Jonathan by the shoulders, pulling him to his feet. "We haven't got time to be sleeping on the job. Come on."
"You know there's something wrong with this – me taking orders from you."
Trip shrugged again. "Think of it as a strongly worded suggestion. Now that the computers are back on line – and virus free – what happens if someone starts the Warp Engine? I can pretty much guarantee that you don't want to stay here sleeping. Not only that, but I don't want you up here if that happens.
Jonathan looked surprised, but touched. "That's… that's very nice to hear."
"Yeah, 'cause at that heat you'll more than cremate and the residue will get into everything. And I'm gonna have enough work without having to clean that up." Now that he could do something, he didn't want to hang around doing nothing. You don't want to spend time with me when I'm cranky. He'd told Malcolm pretty much the same thing once… and the son-of-a-bitch still didn't believe him. That last hit of caffeine down in Engineering was beginning to wear off, and Toby was right: he did get nasty while in withdrawal, and it tended to hit fast. Kaci had already collected all their gear and had the hatch partway open. At least she gets it.
"You're so kind." The sarcasm in Jonathan's voice matched Trip's. "Remind me to get you something expensive for your birthday."
"Power tools are always good." Trip shot back. "That way I can build something that'll get your ass in gear."
"You know that's pretty damn close to insubordination." Jonathan lowered himself through the hatch.
"Damn. I'll have to try harder then. By the way, I'm not your chief engineer." He hoped that wasn't quite as bad as it sounded.
Jonathan seemed willing to take it all as a joke. "Believe me, he's way more charming in the morning. Do you take medication for that, or is it just natural?"
Trip responded by giving him the finger, and Jonathan laughed. "I thought you said you weren't attracted to me." He disappeared down the ladder before Trip had a chance to hit him.
Smartass. He missed that, himself, the insulting banter he and Archer had engaged in back at the academy, before Archer became his direct superior. Now, he found himself watching what he said, even if it was just the two of them over dinner. He felt a new respect for the fraternisation rules creeping over him: they were a pain in the ass at most times… but they did help shield against damage caused by a superior's hurt feelings if things weren't perfect.
He remembered the last truly uninhibited conversation he and Archer had. It was the day before the final senior officer assignments were made to Enterprise, the last time he felt he was dealing with nothing more than a friend.
[ "You look like hell." Archer dropped down into the chair opposite him, and shoved a cup of coffee across the small cafeteria table. "What happened?"
Trip grunted. 'Hell' was hardly an accurate description. It doesn't matter anyway, my career is scuttled. "I had an eventful night."
"I'll say." Archer's eye took in the uncommon pallor of Trip's complexion mixed in with various small cuts and bruises. A severely blackened eye competed for attention with skinned and weeping knuckles. Add in a killer hangover… and I am definitely not the image of an officer.
"What was it, a jealous husband?" Teasing dominated the tone, but concern lay underneath.
Just goes to show how well you know me. Trip raised his eyes enough to glare at Archer and gave him the finger. "No." None of the injuries were personal – he'd just been in the right place to get them. Yesterday he'd blown up at Jeffries over a possible design flaw in Enterprise's hull that had ended in Jeffries promising an official reprimand. Which means no starship posting. He didn't kid himself, he wasn't Jonathan Archer, son of Henry Archer, who'd designed the engine in the first place. He was just some cracker from Florida with too hot a temper and too foul a mouth. Frustrated, he'd gone for a drink. Not at the 602… he never wanted to see the inside of that place again, never wanted to see anything to remind him of Starfleet again. I'm just here to hand in my official resignation. Instead he'd gone somewhere else… and then when they wouldn't serve him any more, somewhere else again. Eventually he landed in one of the few places left that would serve you until you couldn't stand up… and then would pour it down your throat for you if you requested.
Someone had started a fight… hell, at that point it could have been him… and in keeping with the tone of the place, everyone else had eagerly jumped in. It wasn't a square dance like Archer and Robinson had had either… this was full out barroom brawl, complete with weapons. Perhaps fortunately – then again, maybe not – this wasn't a rare affair. When the police arrived, they didn't bother arresting everybody like they would have at a higher quality establishment; they just identified the most common offenders, sent the seriously wounded to the hospital and sent everyone else off with a warning. No record, no crime. Just another sin to add to his list of transgressions.
"Well then, how the hell? You look like you were in a car accident."
"I would've been, if I could drive." He only meant it as a testament to how drunk he'd been, but Archer saw another meaning.
"That's never stopped you before." It seemed Archer would never tire of mocking Trip's piloting skills. "How many scrapes and dints have you racked up on vehicles around here? You better not do the same thing to my ship."
"Oh yeah? And what makes you think you're going to get it? Or that I'll be coming with you?"
Archer shrugged. "I've got as good a chance as any. And what do you mean you won't be coming with me? I thought you were itching to get out there."
"I won't be going. I'm disqualified." He tried to keep the pain out of his voice, and failing, hoped that Archer would blame it on his injuries. He turned something over in his fingers: a shard from the bottle he'd used last night. Any weapon in a pinch. Funny: he'd failed knife training, was barely qualified with the sidearms, was lousy at hand to hand… but give me a bottle, and I can take you to pieces. He'd heard somewhere that it took a certain feral personality to consider fighting with broken glass – some basic desperation hardwired to the soul. He wasn't sure why he'd kept it… a memento, a penance… or maybe just something to slash my wrist with, when I get the news. Maybe not his wrist, but something, anything that would anaesthetise him to the pain in his heart.
Archer rocked back in his chair. "Disqualified? What the hell happened, Trip? How could you be disqualified?"
Trip dropped his eyes back to the coffee, which he hadn't touched. "I pushed Jeffries too far. He's having me written up. Automatic disqualification. I'm fucked."
Archer closed his eyes and took a deep, slow breath. "After all you've done… and I don't just mean the rule-breaking… and you're just giving up like that."
"There's nothing I can do. I'm not you. I am not Jonathan-fucking-Archer, golden child of the Warp Five program. No one's going to protect me, no one gives a fuck who my father is." It was unfair, he knew, but he hurt too much to play nice. I'm a broken-bottle fighter, pal. Welcome to the world of the monster.
"No. What you are is the guy who saved the Warp Five program. Don't forget it was your idea to do a 'midnight' as you called it… your plan."
Not just mine. No, he'd had help on the plan, but there was no way he'd admit it. I'm not dragging more people down with me.
Something must have shown on his face, however. "I mean, even if you didn't come up with all the details yourself… no way A.G. and I would've thought have throwing it out as one of those 'Twenty-minute challenges' you and your team have so much fun with. By the time we came up with something workable, the ship would've been in pieces on the scrap heap."
Trip's eyes snapped up again. "You knew about that?" Hell, he hadn't even been in the same building as them when he'd pulled that one. He'd told them to wait at the 602, then assembled his team in a café down the street. The 'Twenty-minute challenge' was the perfect cover. The rules were simple: throw out an idea for something – a perfect murder, a bank heist, grand-theft-prototype – then come up with a workable plan in twenty minutes. Up until that point it had always been hypothetical… which is what he led them to believe that time. Only Hess had been suspicious… which is probably why she'd played nay-sayer on that one, pointing out all the flaws. He'd practically had to knock her out to keep her from going with him… but he didn't want her career going down in flames alongside his.
He shook his head. "Shit. Well… Hess'll be good for the job… she wanted to help us out on that one anyway. A lot of the good details were hers." He doubted she'd go, though. Hess doesn't get along with authority, either. It wasn't like she needed Starfleet either… two months ago she'd announced the fact that she'd passed the Georgia State bar exam. Double major, he'd joked with her once, sounds serious. Only then did he discover she was a closet hockey-nut (the only thing hidden about her) and that a double major was a ten-minute penalty. He still didn't quite understand that one, but hadn't the guts to ask. At least she has something to fall back on.
What did he have? The glorious chance to go running back to Florida with his tail between his legs, a total failure? The wonderful opportunity to camp out on Elizabeth's couch while he tried to find some place that would take on an unreliable son-of-a-bitch for more than minimum wage? Suddenly he felt the urge for another drink.
"So you went out and got drunk." Archer smiled without humour. It wouldn't have taken a genius to guess that part… only one thing made you this sick a day later. "That still doesn't explain the rest of it. I mean… did you look in a mirror this morning?"
"No." He hadn't wanted to see how bad it was, and his face hurt too much to shave anyway. "There was a fight."
"Ah." Archer was silent for a moment and then his eyes widened. "Not…"
"Yeah." He looked up again and smirked. "Didn't you see my pretty face on the news? Did they get my good side?"
"Jesus, Trip. What were you doing in a place like that? Don't you know you could've been killed?" His eyes roamed over the damage again. "The cops said weapons were involved…"
Trip held up his shard of glass. "I'm not new at it, Jon. Why the hell do you think I grabbed the bottles out of the way when you and A.G. decided to go at it? It wasn't because I was afraid you'd spill the beer… I didn't want either of you getting bright ideas and slashing your own wrists by mistake."
Archer blinked, and then shook his head as though to clear it. "Does that happen often?"
"More than you'd think. You don't break it just right, and you end up with a handful of slivers. Then they just gotta do this." He reached across the table, grabbed Archer's hand and squeezed hard. "That's provided you don't do it to yourself first."
"Jesus," Archer repeated. "I had no idea you were such an expert on bar fights. I mean, you're what? Barely thirty?"
"I've been drinking since I was in high-school, Jon. Not every place is as quiet and genteel as the 602." He'd needed last nights events, needed to drain the rage and punish himself for having it. Yeah, I'm a perfect fit for Starfleet.
"Well, thanks for caring, Trip." Jonathan reached over and patted him on the shoulder. "I don't know that I would've thought of it myself." He stood up. "One good turn deserves another."
Trip folded the shard back down into his hand like a magic trick. "What do you mean?" When did I…
"I'm not going to let you go hurting yourself, either. Like you said, I'm the golden-boy around here. Let me go have a word with Forrest. I mean, you did have a reason for going after Jeffries, right?"
Trip told him. "I studied drafting and architecture when I was younger, and did a lot of work on hotrods. I may not be an expert on body design… but I know a stress point when I see one. They put her together like that… and she could be coming apart before you're ten light-years out of space dock. You piloted the prototype, you know there's a regular vibration up past Warp Three. Jeffries thinks we can dampen it… I'd rather not take the chance."
Archer shuddered. "Neither would I. You just hold that thought, until I go see if we can't straighten this out. I knew I'd picked the right man for the job… and frankly I don't think I could work with Hess. Isn't she the one with the…" he waved a hand vaguely around his head.
"The hair, yeah. And the music, and the attitude… but she's a great engineer. I'd planned on her for SIC anyway." If only because she had the guts to talk back to him, knowing he'd never write her up for expressing an opinion. And she makes me laugh. A valuable commodity at any time.
Archer winced. "Quit trying to talk me out of this. Let a friend do you a favour for once… okay?"
Trip nodded. Whatever Archer did say to Forrest must have worked, because…]
…I'm here. Even if everybody says I shouldn't be. He finished securing the hatch and climbed the rest of the way to the deck.
"That's far enough." He turned to see no one… the voice had come from further down the hallway.
"Okay… just take it easy." Jonathan and Kaci stood just around the corner, a man in front of them with a phase pistol.
Shit. Trip's hand went to one of the pockets of his jeans. I owe you again, Kace. It was a good idea. Praying he hadn't been seen, he crept closer.
"What the hell? What are you doing here?" The man wore the same outfit as Daniels, but was someone else entirely. He turned towards Trip, a look of pure hatred on his face. "You've screwed up everythi…" he snarled as Kaci struck with her knife, knocking it aside. "Look, little girl…"
The distraction was all Trip needed. Lunging, he looped the cheese-cutter wire he'd stolen from the kitchen around the stranger's neck. Crossing his hands, he pulled, feeling the wire begin strangling his captive. "Leave her alone." Sexist as he tried not to be… there was still something wrong with a man turning on a woman… if it wasn't self-defence. And this doesn't qualify; you're armed too.
The man struggled, hitting backwards at Trip, hard. Trip's grip loosened enough for the man to get out a sentence. "Fuck, you." Somehow he snatched the knife from Kaci's hand and buried it in Trip's leg.
"Bastard." The broken-bottle fighter took over. This was life and death, and he was damned if he was going to let this son-of-a-bitch win. He stopped thinking, just reacted to the sheer rage that broke through his exhaustion. He pulled the wire tight again, and dug a knee into the small of his opponent's back. Adrenaline numbed the pain of his own wound and turbo-charged his muscles. Arms honed by years of baseball and football training flexed and tightened, and the wire – designed to slice through even the hardest of cheeses – cut into the soft flesh of the time-traveller's neck.
"Trip! For God's sake, Trip." He became aware of hands pulling at his arms, hands that belonged to Jonathan and Kaci. Abruptly the anger disappeared, leaving shock in its wake.
"Ohmigod." He stared down at what he'd done, at the blood dripping from the ugly wound. His hands fell open and the body fell to the floor, unmoving. "Ohmigod. I killed him… I just…" Turning, he fell to his knees and began to retch. It had been a possibility brought up in Academy training – the fact that he might have to kill someone – but he'd always imagined that if that eventuality ever occurred that it would be at the end of a phase pistol, or he'd be too drunk to realise, and it would be just an instant's reaction. But this… I killed him. I actually took time and I killed him. Not an accident, not a reflex… I murdered him.
Kaci knelt beside him and reached one hand around to the opposite side of his head, and the other on his near cheek, holding him still. "You did what you must. You can't change that now."
He turned to her, ready to lash out, then stopped. Temper had just bought him murder… he could probably do it again. "There's always a choice. I didn't have to kill him."
"Yes, but the other options were untenable." Jonathan didn't approach, leaving the two of them their space. "He was going to kill us, he said so. He said that we couldn't get out of this…"
Kaci looked into Trip's eyes, and he could feel their darkness pulling him in, lending him some of her calm strength. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he nodded and climbed to his feet.
He didn't look at Jonathan – didn't feel that he could. Welcome to the world of the monster. His words not spoken to Archer came back.
{Whoa. You really did kill someone.} Toby looked down at the corpse, then up at Trip. {Sorry, I was watching those guys you were so worried about… I must have missed him. And you… oh, God, this time it's real. It's not just you blaming yourself… you really did it. Oh, Trip. Why can't I be alive, so I can give you a hug?} She dragged an ineffectual hand across his tears. {It shouldn't have been you, you're such a Romantic… Romantics shouldn't have to do this.}
"I'm not a Romantic." He could barely get the words past his lips; his throat rasped and his tongue refused to cooperate. Still… how could someone who knew him as well as Toby make that kind of a mistake? How could she call him something so diametrically opposed to what he was?
{Yes, you are. Up front, you're cynical and sarcastic as everyone else… but deep down you believe in things like Truth, Justice, and Happily Ever After. Shades of Grey, Trip. You still think of good and evil… forgetting that we're all an amalgamation of both.}
"You were the one who told me I wasn't a bad person. I still beg to differ." He didn't want to look at her, either, but like Kaci, she made him – always dodging and bending to put herself in his line of vision. His voice sounded dull even to his ears. He looked down at his leg. It wasn't a bad wound, nowhere near the femoral. If he'd hit that…
Tucker… Inner-Charles knew where this was headed… a direction not allowed. This was always a possibility. You can't always do what you want. Life isn't always about you.
Wasn't it? Wasn't everybody's life about them? Who else was it supposed to be about? Above all, I'm responsible for myself.
Yes. You make your decisions, and you live with them. I'm not letting you take the easy way out just because you don't want to take the tough step of looking in the mirror. Be Responsible Tucker, accept the consequences and deal with it. He could almost feel the mental shake. No excuses. A man is dead, you did it. Stand up and deal with it. There are no Donnelly cowards.
No, cowardice came from the Tucker side, didn't it? Daddy's boy. He recalled an early fight of theirs, his father screaming at his mother: How can you say this is my fault? His mother's reply still held the same level of ice and steel it had then. You're just as responsible for him as I am. He's our son, Tucker. Not mine, not yours, ours. You can't just claim him when it's nice. Funny how Inner-Charles had begun to emerge only when he'd left her stabilizing influence, how his inner voice used the same terms when angry as his mother always did. Tucker. Never Charles, never Charlie, never even Junior. He hadn't made the connection before… but…
I said Archer taught me the Rules of Stubborn, but he must have learned them from her. Inner-Charles, then, was definitely the Momma's Boy, and in this family that hardly meant weak and dependent. "What was it you said about amalgamations?" He limped forward – ignoring Jonathan's fussing and moving on. Not a dark side then… a strong side… a side that could accept realities without having to cloak them in platitudes… a side that brooked no excuses, and took no prisoners. A dry, humourless smile twisted Trip's lips. No wonder they call Nature a Mother. He sighed deeply, trying to keep hysteria at bay. Okay, Mom, what do I do now? He'd never envied the kids with the Moms who panicked at the sight of blood and used dark coloured wash-cloths on skinned knees so that their kids never had to see it, the Moms with sugar cookies and easy hugs, always ready to comfort. Strangely, he preferred the quick, competent hand with the anti-septic swabs and the 'Shit Happens' approach to wounded feelings. It meant there was nothing he was afraid to approach her with, no problem so horrible that she couldn't provide advice.
Even the sex lecture came from her. She hadn't trusted Charles Junior to pull that one off, not with a child as intelligent and smart-mouthed as Trip. Before he even had his first date, he knew more about birth control and disease prevention than people twice his age. She'd backed up every statement with a stack of literature, and ended with another warning about responsibility. The only embarrassment had been on his side, and she hadn't let him get away with it. But that was life, and this was death, so What NOW?
You do the job in front of you, Tucker. The girl's right. You can't change what you did -- stupid or smart as it may turn out to be – so you get on with things and accept the consequences when they happen. Heart of Darkness, Tucker… the only way out is through.
Well, if the experts were to be believed, the Apocalypse was now. And if I can prevent it… don't I have a responsibility to do so?
That's my boy. He could hear pride in the tone now – now that he'd come around to seeing reason. If only Inner-Charles had any idea what was coming next.
He stopped, right next to the doors of the turbolift shaft, the one he and Kaci had been trapped in what now seemed to be an eternity ago. Digging his fingers into the seam of the door, he pulled. This time it did move, slowly and laboriously, fighting him for every inch.
"We are running out of time, Tucker. We have to fix this now." He looked up to see a contingent of angry people bearing down on them. About three Danielses (including one with a limp) mixed with strangers he'd never seen and couldn't recognise other than the fact that they seemed pissed off. Sisko tagged along behind them, watching but not saying anything.
"Look," a woman stepped forward, but Jonathan and Kaci stood between her and him, preventing her from interfering. "It probably helps that you eliminated Kaizen. He was a rogue agent… we had no idea he was willing to pull something like this. But you are not supposed to be here, Tucker. The future doesn't work…"
He turned away, and looked down into the darkness at the abyss. He could hear his mind screaming at him not to do this, could feel the weight of the future bearing in on him. This is it. Taking a deep breath, he leapt.