Disclaimer: I do not own Enterprise or any of its characters. This is for entertainment purposes only, I do not make money off of this.
A/N: Sempai/Kohai essentially means Senior/Junior. Sempai is an honorific given to the most experienced student, ie. First Student. Kohai refers to any student less experienced in the same discipline. (A master would be called Sensei). Outside of Japan, it usually only appears in martial arts disciplines… in Japan it is used in many different training situations. Essentially, the Kohai is in service to the Sempai. Also: the RCMP really are referred to as 'The Horsemen.' Please R&R. Pretty please?
"You're certain about this." Archer stared at the report, then up at his armoury officer.
"Yes, sir. We've done the calculations and run the models several times, sir. There is no question in my mind that we are dealing with a case of homicide here, sir." Malcolm stared back, not letting Archer's scepticism sway him. "We are still waiting for the autopsy report from Doctor Phlox, but I can only assume that it will back up our position." Torey had gone down to Phlox with a list of specific tests she'd wanted run on both Crewman George and her biological samples, and to deliver her flies to Crewman Cutler. But as commanding officer, it's my job to report to the captain anyway. If Archer had a problem with what he had to report… well then that was Archer's problem. I've seen the data. I believe it. The only way he wasn't going to investigate would be if Archer directly ordered him not to… and if you actually do that sir, I'm going to be forced to consider you as a suspect.
Archer sighed and closed his eyes, and Malcolm could see the man's years etching themselves into his face. "I just find it so hard to believe that a member of my crew could commit murder."
You mean other than you and I? The thought was unfair, but he had it anyway. He didn't say it aloud, though – not only would it be disrespectful, but it would only add to Archer's pain. And I may be a killer, but I am not a cruel man. "I know, sir. But the evidence says otherwise." After the experiment in the cargo bay he'd plugged the numbers into the computer – just to satisfy his own doubt – and they still came out the same. Crewman George had either been dead, or unconscious when he had gone over the railing… and, like Torey, Malcolm didn't believe it was without help.
"Where's Ensign Holley? I believe she's assisting you on this?"
More like the other way around. "She's checking in with Dr. Phlox, sir. She had some additional tests she wanted him to run, and some for Crewman Cutler as well."
"Crewman Cutler?" Archer opened his eyes in surprise. "Why…"
"Apparently insects are one of the leading pieces of forensic evidence, sir. They have very specific reproductive cycles. Ensign Holley feels that between her expertise as an entomologist and the medical knowledge she picked up from Dr. Phlox, Crewman Cutler is the most qualified choice to do the forensic work with the flies. Sir." He could feel nervousness creeping in as he waded into unfamiliar territory. I wish she were here. She would at least know what she was talking about.
"I take it Ensign Holley is more fully versed in criminal investigation procedures than you are, Lieutenant." The ghost of a smile decorated Archer's lips; the merest hint of his former self poked through.
Malcolm dropped his gaze just slightly. "Yes, sir. She spent several years working with the Royal Canadian Police, sir." That previous experience had garnered her an instant commission upon joining Starfleet, something that rankled some of the others. But unlike most of them, she hadn't joined the academy as a fresh-faced recruit of nineteen needing the rebellion kicked out of her, and the steel installed… she'd shown up with that already done, and with skills unique to her. He remembered the argument he'd had with Forrest over her assignment… one of the few times he'd ever questioned the judgement of a superior.
"We are heading into unknown territory, sir. I need people with Starfleet weapons training and experience… there are a great many officers who have served with Starfleet longer and are better qualified…"
"Your father was a Navy man, right?" Forrest waited patiently until Malcolm's voice trailed off. "It's an old Navy tradition… at least in America. We put at least one Criminal Investigation Officer on board every ship. While Starfleet doesn't have a CI office… though that's something I'm trying to change… we do happen to have a qualified Criminal Investigator who – I personally believe – is ready for a ship assignment. That Investigator is Ensign Holley. I have assigned her to your department because in addition to being the Chief Armoury Officer, you are considered Chief of Security. As such, criminal investigations would belong to you. Now, I hope you may never have need of her services… but should the situation arise, you may find yourself grateful that I'm such an unreasonable son-of-a-bitch."
Malcolm had left a dent in the corridor wall when he left, receiving a couple of startled stares from members of the Admiral's staff. Now, he sent a mental apology Forrest's way. Thoughts of Forrest brought up thoughts of his father. You would have replaced me for arguing with you. But Forrest seemed to have a talent for dealing with the rebellious – just look at all the times he'd mollified Commander Tucker, when even Archer couldn't. He'd even had Trip in for a three-hour conversation when Enterprise had returned from the Expanse, though Trip wouldn't confess what it was about. Ever since then the engineer had kept an eye on his captain, watching for something.
"If I recall, you didn't want her." Trust Captain Archer to have been up on the gossip – the only person better connected was Commander Tucker.
"I've changed my mind on that, now, sir." Malcolm met the captain's gaze again. "I would be lost on this without her, sir. There are a great many things I would have missed."
Archer nodded and tossed the pad down onto his desk. "Well, I want you two to get this dealt with quickly. Unless we are attacked, you can consider this situation your top priority. I am going to want daily reports… more frequently if there's something I should be updated on. The idea that someone is walking around my ship with a fellow crewmember's blood on their hands is not one that makes me happy."
"No, sir. Me either." Yes that was unsettling: the small village aspect to the thing. There are only eighty-four people on this ship. Virtually everybody knows everybody. Make that eighty-three now since there was no one to magically appear and fill Crewman George's shoes. Not that he's really replaceable. Oh, in the technical sense, anyone could be replaced, but in the human sense…
He took a brief comfort in the fact that – no matter how many times he'd dealt with death lately – he wasn't unmoved. He doubted Torey was either, no matter how calm she seemed. There's a difference between unmoved and not letting it traumatise you. The trauma came from feeling helpless – that there was nothing you could do. But we can do, and we will.
He returned to the armoury more unsettled than before his meeting with Archer. Maybe we should be worried. Archer had lost weight since the Expanse… it showed in the bony areas of his face and of his hands. And he didn't have it to spare in the beginning. Once merely trim, the man now looked gaunt. No wonder Trip and Forrest were worried. They knew Archer better than anyone else… anyone else alive. He looks like his father, towards the end: beaten. The image was even more apt, taken in conjunction with eyes bruised from lack of sleep.
"O Captain! My Captain!" Malcolm murmured. Was Torey right? Would Archer simply not show up for duty one day, 'fallen cold and dead' in his quarters or ready room? He's been more mentor to me than my own father.
"'… our fearful trip is done. The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won.'" Torey dropped a set of pads on the desk in front of him. "Whitman. Not many know him anymore."
"What's this?" He looked up as she slid into the chair next to his and unloaded a pair of salads as well. He hadn't meant to be overheard, much less by someone who knew what the poem was about.
"Personnel files. Crewman George's crewmates' and roommates'. We'll start with the people closest to him and move on from there. It helps to have background on somebody before questioning them. We'll be working through lunch, so I brought us something to eat."
"Thank-you." He wasn't much of a salad person, but it was the thought that counted.
"Sorry." She seemed to notice his lack of enthusiasm. "I haven't been able to stomach meat since I worked a three-day-old – heat of August in Toronto. Between the smell and the maggots…"
"Salad sounds lovely." Suddenly his planned steak didn't seem so appetizing.
Torey shrugged. "Everybody has their quirks. I can handle blood, feces, saliva, vomit… I've done crispers without even blinking. But I don't do well with rot."
"Crispers?" Malcolm found himself almost afraid to ask.
"Burnt. A good house fire – or similar – and the flesh literally cooks off the bones. I've seen people make the mistake of trying to pick them up and…" she made a sucking noise and Malcolm shuddered.
"And it doesn't bother you?" He didn't want to let his mind elaborate on the image it called up. The maggots were bad enough.
"Sometimes, late at night I remember a few… but you learn to deal with it, or you don't do it at all. There's tricks. I know some who swear by mentholatum for the smells, but all I've found is that it opens up the nasal passages. Sometimes it helps to look at it as a case… not a person. It sounds dehumanizing and cold – I know – but sometimes it's the only way to keep your sanity. At the same time, I know a guy who treats every case personally… he even gives names to the Does. You find a trick, and you use it until it doesn't work anymore. Then you find another one… or you find a way out." For a moment, she stared off into space… a deep hurt in her eyes.
"Ensign?" Even this level of reticence was rare for Torey.
"Sorry. I quit the Horsemen and joined Starfleet after someone I knew picked a permanent way out. I needed a change." As suddenly as she had drifted off, she shifted back into efficiency mode.
"The Horsemen?" A smile twitched at Malcolm's lips despite the seriousness of Torey's tone.
"An old nickname… actually it was generally used by other forces to refer to ours. It used to be the Royal Canadian Mounted Police… but they changed it in the early twenty-first century when they had far more Members who couldn't ride, than who could. And given that there was little likelihood of returning to horseback patrols… someone decided the name was outmoded."
"It just sounded like you were a rider for the apocalypse." He turned his attention to one of the pads. "So what precisely, are we doing here? Just getting background?"
"Getting background… and checking background. I want to fact check every detail of these files… just to see if there's something Starfleet missed, first time around. Look, especially, for any kind of previous connection… even if one of them happened to be another's father's brother's nephew's cousin's former roommate."
"'And what does that make us?'" Malcolm couldn't resist the chance to get even.
"'Absolutely nothing!" She joined him on the last line. "I didn't know you were in to Mel Brooks. It seems more Commander Tucker's style, than yours."
"Don't tell anyone." Malcolm dropped his voice. "But I own every movie the man ever made."
"A subversive personality. Remind me never to let you near my Rocky and Bullwinkle tapes." She neatly divided the stack of pads in two and handed him half. "Pay attention to the details. Even the smallest thing can mean the difference between catching someone and not. And listen to your gut. Even if it looks like nothing… if you have a feeling it's not right, flag it. Then we'll stick 'em together and see what we've got."
He nodded. Yes, Ensign. He had a feeling that lunch wouldn't be the only meal they'd be working through. At least it was familiar work, though: running background checks, albeit more thoroughly than he'd ever done before. I was looking for security risks… not connections. How some tenuous link in the past connected with what they were looking at now… I haven't got a clue… but it was apparently quite important.
Four hours later, he rubbed his eyes, unable to look at a screen any longer. He now knew more about certain members of Commander Tucker's engineering crew than he'd ever wanted to. I probably know things their mothers aren't aware of. More than once he'd wanted to get up and walk away… start questioning the suspects or something. Anything rather than just sitting and researching background. But every time he fidgeted, Torey would look over to see if he'd found something.
"This isn't the movies, Lieutenant. We're not going to solve it in a couple of hours." She'd given him variations on that statement several times. "Patience. Rushing only leads to mistakes."
"I am not, by nature, a patient man." People only thought he was the quiet, introspective type. But I can't sit still for too long. In some ways, I need more stimulation than Commander Tucker. Now there was someone with the patience of Job when the job called for it. I expect results… but the commander could sit for hours making the tiniest adjustments on something to get it just perfect. Amazing how people get us mixed up.
"If you have to get up… I could use a cup of coffee. Large triple-triple." Torey didn't even glance in his direction.
"Excuse me?"
"Three cream, three sugar. Thanks."
He opened his mouth to argue, but then thought the better of it. We could probably both use a cup of coffee right now. God knew he was on edge… she couldn't be in much better shape. Instead he turned and left for the mess hall, a line from another comic movie drifting in his head. As you wish.
"Malcolm!" The familiar voice made him turn his head. Trip loped down the hallway in a hurry to catch up. "Did you find out anything?"
And other times he's as patient as a two-year-old. Malcolm felt his shoulders creeping up around his ears as more tension settled into them. He knew Trip needed reassuring, but also knew he couldn't provide it.
"Nothing yet. These things take time, Trip… and I can't discuss it with you, anyway." He could see the hurt in Trip's eyes – the engineer hated to be left out of anything… it was almost pathological. "It's a security matter. I'm sorry. I have to keep it confidential."
Trip sighed. "Yeah, I guess. It's just… it's just not easy to deal with, you know? Every time I close my eyes, I see him lying there… and all that blood…"
"I know. Me too." He didn't tell the commander the bad part: Sometimes they never go away.
"Are you all right, Mal?"
Malcolm blinked and looked at Trip. "Am…"
"'Cause you just all of a sudden blanked out and went pale on me." Trip managed a weak smile. "I thought you armoury officers were tougher than that."
"Bad memory." Instead of elaborating he quickened his pace. I don't ever want to talk about it. Not even to you. Because there were some things in life that you held close; that weren't even for sharing with your closest friends. Some things you don't even share with yourself. He caught himself pressing a couple of fingers to his lips. Now there's something else I haven't thought of in a long time. One of his rare rebel habits, picked up solely to infuriate his father. He took a deep breath and blew it out through his lips in that comforting, controlled fashion. Like that's any good.
"I don't believe this." Ten years and now…
"What?" Trip looked around, trying to spot what Malcolm referred to.
"Nic fit." Trip looked so totally at a loss that Malcolm elaborated. "I want a cigarette."
"Cigarette… as in tobacco... as in smoking? I didn't think anybody did that anymore, isn't it illegal?"
Malcolm shook his head. "It's not illegal to smoke… it's just not allowed in any sort of three dimensional Earth space. Mostly because it's not very healthy. Which is why I started in the first place. It made my father angry… but it also got his attention. Except, by the time he noticed, I was addicted." He flexed his fingers, feeling his hands beginning to shake. "It's not an easy habit to kick… not when you're as hooked as I was."
"How bad?" Trip stared at him, shock written all over his All-American features.
"Over thirty a day. I can't believe I could still breathe, let alone pass the Starfleet physical." This he could talk about, this was safe territory.
"I can't imagine doing something like that. I mean Malcolm… that's like…"
"Slow suicide?" Malcolm smirked. "Yeah… that's kind of what I had in the back of my mind." He took another deep breath, forcing memories down.
"How long ago did you quit?" At least Trip no longer seemed to be thinking about Crewman George. "Mean you did quit… didn't you?" He sounded almost panicky, like Malcolm had some illicit tobacco secreted about his person.
Mother hen. I wish. Actually he didn't wish that… because then he'd use it. "Yes, I quit. But the cravings can return. Never as bad as they were when I was going through withdrawal… but…" He grabbed a couple of mugs and slid them into the dispenser. "Replace one addiction with another. At least this one's socially acceptable."
"Hell, Malcolm, you're half-way an engineer. It's socially required." Trip grabbed one of the mugs, surprised when Malcolm didn't let go.
"Sorry, Commander. I'm just running an errand. Lots of work to do." He tried to inject some irony into it, so Trip wouldn't feel abandoned.
"Yeah… right. Sorry." Trip released the mug, coffee sloshing all over Malcolm's hand.
"We'll talk later, okay?" He knew the way Trip could take things… even the slightest hint of non-interest could be seen as a personal insult. And people say I'm touchy. "2100. I'll meet you at the rec-room." But I know things about you that even Archer doesn't know.
Trip nodded. "Okay."
"Darts." He'd been trying to teach Trip the fine art of the game for weeks now. You'd think an ex-quarterback would have better aim.
Trip made a face at him, and Malcolm felt a surge of relief. You know I won't give up a chance to beat you at something…so you know I'm not making an empty promise. Knowing what he knew, he'd never do that to Trip. Other people could have the platitudes, but Trip deserved the hard truths that were easier to take. I won't betray you. I'll always play it straight. Everybody wondered how two such different personalities got along so well… they'd never believe it was as simple as trust and truth. We don't candy-coat things for each other.
He made it back to the armoury without spilling any more. "One large triple-triple." He set the mug down on the desk in front of her.
"Thanks." She took a sip, not lifting her gaze from the text on her screen. "Did you get your share done?"
I've been getting your coffee. "Not yet. Almost."
"Well, get cracking. I'm almost done here, so when you finish up, we can start with the first round of questioning."
"Um… Ensign…"
"Memories change, sir. It's bad enough we wasted time here… but I don't go in unprepared. I was hoping having you would speed things up." She used a stylus to scribble a couple of notes on a pad.
"Ensign… Lieutenant. Lieutenant… Ensign." He sat down in his chair again and tried to pick up where he left off.
"Veteran…Rookie. Rookie…Veteran. Hurry up." At least she wasn't speaking loudly enough to be heard by anyone else.
"Insubordination." She was walking the line, and he knew she knew it.
She chewed her lip and looked away, and he felt his chest tighten. She's laughing. It wasn't indignation he felt though… more a determination to show her up, show her exactly who was boss. He forced himself to look back at the file, to ignore her. Another thought rose, unbidden. Don't let Commander Tucker know she's under your skin. Trip would never let up on him if he found out. Sub-Commander T'Pol used to drive you crazy, too, didn't she, my friend? Except it was different for them… T'Pol wasn't Starfleet… wasn't bound by the chains of command. I can't get involved with a junior officer. It's inappropriate. Which would serve as a convenient excuse to candy-coat the truth: that there was no way in hell it could be mutual.
He sighed again as another of the familiar pangs hit him. I'm stronger than that… I don't need it. It's poisonous… it's toxic. A few drops can kill. It's carcinogenic… I don't need it, I don't need it, I don't need it… He clenched his eyes shut and ground his teeth together, forcing himself to resist.
"Are you okay, sir?" Of all the people he had to be sitting next to, why did it have to be an ex-copper?
"Fine, Ensign. Just a headache." A lie: the headache would come later. But he wouldn't – couldn't take anything for it… couldn't give his body another crutch. Because that's what you want, isn't it? An easy way out… something to make everything better. He couldn't confess to her like he had to Trip – command depended on trust and Torey had no reason to trust an addict.
"Maybe we should stop in and see Dr. Phlox. Because most 'just headaches' don't leave you white-faced and shaking. You're the colour of butter, sir." Oh, yes, it had to be an ex-copper. Trained in human observation and human behaviour.
"I'm fine, Ensign. It'll go away on it's own." He took another few slow deep breaths, reminding himself that he could. You're not hacking or wheezing. He gulped down some coffee, grateful for its strength. You can taste that… you can taste the flavours. Do you really want to go back to not being able to taste?
"Sir… you're ashen. You need to see the doctor."
"I don't need to see the doctor, Ensign." Ashen would be a good term, probably. He fought to keep his voice from rising to a shout. Control, Malcolm, control. "It will pass on it's own. Now can we just finish up here and get on with whatever else you have in mind?" He knew she wanted to argue, but she must also have known that if she did he would have her up on charges. This too, shall pass. He'd get through this… he'd make it. He focussed on the file in front of him, twisting and pulling on his fingers, just to keep them occupied.
She didn't argue verbally, but reached over and laid the back of her hand against his forehead. "Your skin's clammy. That's not good."
Neither is your hand on my face. On the other hand, it kept him from thinking about cigarettes. And there's another reason to be glad you quit. You are getting older… the last thing you need is a contributing factor to impotence. Actually, the contact seemed to be calming… the simple relief of being taken care of.
"I'll be fine." He took her wrist and pulled her hand away. "Thank you for your concern, however."
"No problem." Again she smiled that hint of a smile… and the same thing happened to his heart. Combined with everything else, the sudden rush of blood hit hard.
"Sir!" Her voice sounded far away as he tried to stand up, then pitched forward and fell.
"Welcome back, Mr. Reed. Though I must admit it's usually Commander Tucker I see in here with head injuries…" Phlox leaned over him, smiling that impossibly huge smile. "Ensign Holley said you passed out… that you hadn't been feeling well…"
"I'm fine." He tried to sit up, then decided not to. "Ow." He reached up and felt his forehead, and the new rough line that ran along it.
"Apparently you hit your head on the desk… you will need to wash that uniform… it was enough of a gash to require sutures. Is there something you'd care to discuss with me?" Trust Phlox to know it was bigger than Malcolm would ever want to admit.
He started to say something, then stopped. "Cravings."
"Ah, yes. Your nicotine addiction. A rather strange habit… I must admit… especially given your numerous allergies and tendency to develop respiratory ailments…"
"Doctor," If not interrupted, Phlox had a tendency to go on forever. "I've already quit. I don't need the anti-smoking lecture. I already know it by heart. I've just been under a lot of stress these last few hours… and haven't really had an outlet for it. I will be fine."
"I agree. You will probably have somewhat of a headache… and you should keep those sutures moist and clean… but you do seem to have avoided a concussion."
"And people say Commander Tucker has the hard head." This time he did manage to sit up, slowly. "You said Ensign Holley…"
"Yes… she called me in. She informed me that she would complete your tasks and meet you outside the conference room at 1700. She also asked that I provide you with this." Phlox handed over a pad. "Crewman George's autopsy report, including the extra tests the ensign asked me to run. I must admit, I would never have thought to look for some of the things she asked for… and I did find one of them. Your surmise was correct, Crewman George was not conscious when he was deposited on the floor. He was still alive… which explains the quantity of blood – his heart was still beating when he made contact – but he would have been dead shortly, regardless… given the amount of toxin present. While actual cause of death does appear to be the impact… he would have been suffering from a transient increase in blood pressure followed by paroxymal atrial fibrillation and cardiac standstill. Ironically, the substance is one with which you have a certain familiarity, Lieutenant…"
Oh, no. "Let me guess. Nicotine. Thank-you, doctor… you've been most helpful." He slid to the floor and waited a moment for the room to stop swaying. "But I should be going… I wouldn't want to keep the ensign waiting." No, definitely no mutual feeling there… she just didn't want her senior officer bloodying up the place while she tried to work. Face facts, Malcolm. You are not, and never will be, a ladies' man. Wasn't that the true reason why he'd spent so much time with Commander Tucker? To serve as consolation prize? Your idea, not his. For if anyone was desperate enough to settle for second… well, I'm desperate enough to be happy to have you.
She was already there, waiting for him when he arrived. "That looks nasty, sir. Do you have the report?"
He handed her the pad and she handed him a bundle of clothing. "Fresh uniform… I didn't think you'd have time to change. While it is a good idea to put people on edge, your Frankenstein look is going to be bad enough."
"Frankenstein was the doctor. I'm assuming you're implying that I look like his creation." In response to her odd look, he explained. "I spend a lot of time with Commander Tucker. Some things you just learn."
"Ah." She nodded. "Well, go get changed," she indicated the door behind her, "and we'll get started."
Why am I taking orders from you? He did as she instructed anyway, telling himself that he had no desire to remain in a blood soaked uniform. He caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the window and winced. He did look a little like Frankenstein's creature… what in heaven's name had induced Phlox to use black sutures? He changed the wince into a scowl, and decided that it looked better. It's the closest someone with your stature will ever come to looking menacing. He cursed his mother's genes, and not for the first time. No one ever took him seriously as an armoury officer – just look at all the hassle he'd had with Hayes. He'd spent years in his teens and early twenties trying to bulk up – only to finally realise that it would never happen. No wonder people like Torey assume they can walk all over you.
"Are you coming or not?" The door hissed open and Torey poked her head in just as he was stepping into the clean uniform.
"Do you mind?" He felt the flush creeping up the back of his neck and hopped backwards to half hide behind the conference table.
"Get a grip, sir. I was a cop, I've seen worse than that." She had a wicked gleam in her eyes, though.
"Well, next time at least have the decency to knock," he grumbled. This is not the way to maintain your authority. He glared at her until she finally withdrew.
Definitely not any attraction on her part. 'Get a grip, I've seen worse?' Not precisely words to stroke a man's ego. "Why is it that you always fall for the impossible, Malcolm?" He turned to the man in the window, already knowing the answer. Because that way you never have to worry about the next step; worry about it getting complicated. As long as any potential relationship lay in the realm of Never To Happen he was safe. There would be no need to open up and share those dark, dangerous parts of himself that no one ever got to see; there would be no need to become vulnerable.
He sighed, knowing that if he waited any longer, Torey would be coming back in and demanding to know what was taking so long. Don't give her an excuse… don't go handing ammunition to the enemy. If this kept up… how long before his authority lay in tatters in front of everyone? If you ever wanted a way to piss off Father… the Admiral would disown him if he saw this. "'Authority is never shared and never bartered, Malcolm. An officer who does not insist upon his authority, might as well resign his commission, for he is no kind of capable officer.'" He deepened his voice in a mimicry of the Admiral's. The old man would have kittens if he ever saw Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Hess – the thought brought a smile to Malcolm's face.
Now there would be an explosion and a half. Stuart Reed meeting Charles Tucker the Third. You could power a warp engine with it. Easy-going Trip… until you messed with someone he cared about. I don't think he likes you much, Father, what little he knows about you. If he had all the details… Another, nastier thought occurred. Now that would piss you off even more, wouldn't it? That I have friends… friends who don't just like me because it's 'politically expedient.' Reeds did not have friends… Reeds had acquaintances and contacts. Malcolm's upbringing had been designed to prevent the forming of close friendships… for friendships caused weakness and there was no room in a Reed for weakness.
Well fuck you, Father. As hard as that is to imagine. Sometimes he was certain he'd been adopted. There was no way the Admiral and Mrs. Reed would ever thaw that ice enough for intimate contact… not even for the short time it would take to create a child.
"Now that is a good look. See if you can maintain it." Torey nodded in approval at Malcolm's scowl as he emerged from the conference room. "First on the list is Crewman Neale… one of Crewman George's roommates. He's one of the botanists…"
"Which makes him a good suspect," Malcolm guessed. "He would have the opportunity – possibly more than anyone else – to lay hands on the poison."
"Very good, sir. So Doctor Phlox told you about the nicotine."
"Yes. And since nicotine is a rather uncommon poison nowadays, but is one of the more potent organic poisons…" Why couldn't you have picked something healthier to become addicted to… like arsenic or strychnine? Which – come to think of it – could also be found in cigarettes. "Yes, Malcolm Reed, you are a friggin' genius."
"I wouldn't go that far, sir. Your logic is still fairly simplistic… we haven't even traced the origin of the nicotine yet." He didn't realise he spoke aloud, until Torey responded.
"I wasn't talking to you, Ensign. And it wasn't even about that." On the other hand… if this kept up, slow suicide might be a tenable option. At least it will keep me from strangling you. He had to hurry to keep up with her – she used her long legs to full advantage. But there was no way he was going to trail along behind her… like a subordinate.
They stopped outside the doors to the botany lab. "Now, I'll ask the questions… you just back me up. Don't get fancy on me… there is an art to this. These are just preliminary inquiries… it's not an interrogation. In fact, it might go better if you don't say anything." She turned to hit the door release.
"Excuse me, Ensign…" He gritted his teeth, feeling his fingers begin to curl.
"Sir, you're lucky I'm letting you in at all. Questioning is a delicate procedure. I could just have it all recorded and let you listen to it later." She reached for the door release again.
"Ensign." He grabbed her elbow and smiled at her… or maybe just bared his teeth. "I am your superior officer…"
"No, sir, merely a higher ranking one. With all due respect, sir, you don't have the first fucking clue on how to conduct a criminal investigation. I'm lucky I have any evidence to work with at all… you can't just barge in like Columbo or Jessica-fucking-Fletcher and start looking around. There are procedures to be followed… starting with no one touches the body until the coroner has pronounced. I don't care if you thought you were checking for a pulse… any idiot could have told you that there would be no pulse, because his fucking brains were all over the fucking deck. That still doesn't eliminate the procedure. You wondered why I assigned a guard to Styles? What if she faked her little 'fainting spell?' You would've sent her off… and if she had anything to do with it she could have trotted off to destroy even more evidence. The escort limits that possibility." She spoke softly but clearly, leaning in close enough for him to feel her breath on his face.
"I am not asking to take over, Ensign. What I am asking for is a little more respect… and yes, I do have some due. I admit, I have a lot to learn… but I will not be dismissed or treated as some sort of straw-man to make the soldiers nervous. I am your commanding officer… and I will be treated as such. Is that clear?" He kept his own voice low; the tones were ones he learned from his father.
They stared at each other for a long moment, neither one blinking. Finally she slowly nodded.
"Excellent." He reached past her to the door release. "Shall we proceed?"