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Part 2: The Man Who Wasn't There
Should've picked the hammocks, Malcolm thought groggily as he was thrown once more from his slumber to the floor of the cabin. This was the third time he had been awakened by the ship's enthusiastic rocking. Examination had revealed a crew cabin containing ten neatly stowed hammocks, but he had decided to spend the night in the comfort of the only real bed on the ship in the captain's quarters. It was comfortable, but he was beginning to see that nobility had its price.
He picked himself back up and was prepared to settle back in to sleep when he realized something was wrong. Sunlight streamed once more through the portholes, casting narrow bands of light throughout the room—he had slept away the night. That wasn't the problem, though. Something felt different.
The ship wasn't moving. All night long he had rocked and swayed to its—for the most part—peaceful rhythm. Now it was still and silent, but for a tremulous creaking beneath his feet. Was it possible…?
He raced from the room, through the large open research laboratory, past the dining area, storeroom, and galley, and up the stairs onto the open deck. Breathless, he took in his new surroundings.
Rising up out of the sea before him, cast orange in the morning light of the sun, was an island. He could take in the whole of it with one sweeping glance: a white beach curved away to the east while a wide inlet dipped into the western coastline. The whole thing couldn't have been more than a few hundred meters wide, rising to a gentle slope at the center. It was treeless, lush and green.
Land.
One thing he remembered about Onara was that land was scarce. His foggy memory tried to recall any island formations in the area they had been studying, but it came up blank. How far off course had he gone? He shook his head and studied the island once more, walking along the deck.
As his field of vision shifted he was surprised once more: behind his tiny island was another…and another and another. A chain!
Not one to look a gift land formation in the mouth, Malcolm began uncovering the nearest lifeboat. Surely these islands were charted, surely these could be used to pinpoint his location. Now that he had a reliable marker, he needed to send another message.
And it would be nice to sleep on something stationary, he thought happily.
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"He must be on a different ship," Trip said again stubbornly. He was seated in a conference room on the Tubat, trying to keep his temper in check. T'Pol and Archer sat on either side of him, and across from them the Onaran Minister of Oceanic Management and one of the chief scientists on the land reclamation project watched the Enterprise group warily.
A wave of calm diluted Trip's growing anger and he knew that T'Pol was trying to make sure he didn't do anything too stupid during this meeting. After all, they still needed the aquatics' help in finding their missing crewman. He hadn't thought convincing the Onarans that Malcolm might still be alive and was worth rescuing would be a problem, but apparently it was.
He tried to send his thanks to her via their bond, but he doubted she got the message. While T'Pol was adept at reading him, his telepathic powers were, he'd told her once, "telepathetic." Trip looked at her now, fiddling with a datapad, and noted again how fidgety she seemed. In a human it would have been barely noticeable, in T'Pol…either his bad habits were wearing off on her or she was anxious. He had little time to wonder about this as on of the Onarans was speaking.
"There are no other ships," the Minister, Krevet, explained again patiently. "Your Lt. Reed must have washed overboard or left the ship before we found it."
"But that makes no sens—"
"It doesn't seem likely," Archer cut his engineer off, giving Trip a stern look before continuing. "But even if that's true, there's still a chance Malcolm is alive in that water. Until I know for sure one way or the other, I can't just give up." He paused and cocked his head, glancing from one Onaran to the other. "Forgive me, minister, but where is Dr. BenCour? She's been assisting us with rescue efforts and can bring you up to date on our progr—"
"I am aware of your progress, Captain." The scientist, who had been introduced as Teleel, spoke up for the first time. "Dr. BenCour is currently resting…she has been working non-stop and our medics insisted that she get some rest. She can be quite…driven, even to the point of neglecting her own needs." Though he said it smoothly enough, Trip couldn't help but feel that the excuse for Oula's absence was somehow too…scripted. He couldn't think why this should be so, however, and let it go.
Archer seemed to be considering this for a moment as well, but also decided not to pursue it. "I'm sure you're aware, then, that we can't get accurate bio-readings in the water for some reason. We're not sure, but my science officer tells me this electromagnetic interference may play a part in that."
The two Onarans looked at one another before Teleel answered. "Yes…yes, we have been looking into it. We are at as much of a loss as you are, captain. We cannot locate the source, but we are working on a way of filtering it from our communications systems."
"As are we," T'Pol nodded. "I will apprise you of our progress, if you would do the same."
Teleel placed his webbed hands flat on the table, defiantly ignoring T'Pol's request. "I do not believe, however, that it is anything more than a minor disturbance. If your man is alive in the water, we should find his bio-signs without any problems."
"A minor disturbance!" Trip spluttered. "It's effecting almost every system on—"
"We are more than happy to offer our continued assistance, Captain." Minister Krevet ignored the engineer's outburst and addressed Archer, who gave another warning look to Trip and turned his attention to the Onaran. "However, this project is subject to very controlled time restraints. Dr.BenCour and her team had already initiated the process of increasing the current pressure in this area before the accident occurred, correct?" He turned to his colleague.
Teleel nodded. "The process has been put on standby for the time being, but the pressure will drop over the next 36 hours. If we divert water into that current stream after the pressure has dropped…well, the results would be disastrous."
"You can keep your timeline," Archer said evenly. Trip thought he saw a tiny muscle at his friend's temple twitch. "We will continue to look for Lt. Reed, however, until either he is back on board my ship or I am satisfied that there is no chance for his recovery."
"If you do not find him soon, you will have that satisfaction in 36 hours, I'm afraid." Minister Krevet informed him. "Once the second stage of the project—pumping water into the new current swell—has begun, it will produce unusually destructive seas: whirlpools, violent waves, and gale-force winds. We'll be monitoring progress from several hundred miles away, it's too dangerous to stay. And I'm afraid," the minister opened his palms in a gesture of helplessness, "your crewman will not be able to survive in that. Trust me, captain—we are a seafaring people and not one of us could live through it."
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"Not now, T'Pol!" Trip groused, putting his hands on his hips and he looked around the white mental space they sometimes shared in sleeping or meditation. Only a few seconds earlier he had settled in for a Phlox-mandated nap in his quarters, but apparently T'Pol felt they needed to talk. He rarely complained about the bond they shared—in fact, secretly he was thrilled that it had developed—but he didn't need linked mental powers to tell him what was coming now. He wasn't in the mood to be comforted or lectured about his work habits while Malcolm was in danger. He'd already gotten that from the doctor, he didn't want to hear it from T'Pol too.
"Forgive me, Commander." The Vulcan appeared behind him and he spun to face her. "This seemed the most suitable time and place to talk, however."
"I'm supposed to be sleeping," he countered.
"You are sleeping," she pointed out, arms crossed.
Defeated, Trip sat down and crossed his legs. "Okay, fine. What do you want to talk about?"
The Vulcan remained standing and raised one eyebrow curiously.
"What?" Trip asked. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"You are sulking."
"I'm what?" The engineer was instantly indignant at the suggestion.
"Sulking," she said flatly. "Ensign Sato explained it to me—I notice that humans do it quite often. You are determined to remain in a bad temper in the hopes that I will leave you alone."
"I know what it means!" Now he really was going to wring Hoshi's neck for being so helpful. He sighed. "Okay, okay. No more sulking. See? Here's me, not sulking. So what do you want to talk about?"
After a long pause, she sat down as well. "Trip," she began, "I know you are worried about Lt. Reed, but it is unlikely that he is…on another ship."
"So you think my theory is crazy, huh?" Trip glowered, then remembered what she'd said about sulking and stopped.
"Not crazy. Simply…hopeful thinking."
"Wishful thinking," Trip corrected absently.
"Wishful thinking," T'Pol repeated. "I checked the vessel plans with the Onaran Oceanic Guard and looked over the data collected by the project research team. There were no other ships scheduled to be in that area. This part of Onara is not highly trafficked, which is one of the reasons it was chosen for this project in the first place."
"I still don't like it," Trip said doggedly. "It doesn't make sense. Malcolm is our tactical officer—what kind of strategic move dictates that you leave a place where you're safe and there's communication equipment to jump back in the ocean?"
"Perhaps he had no choice," T'Pol countered. Trip gave her a look that clearly said he thought this was madness. She stared straight back, unflinching, for a moment before her face softened. "Though I will admit it does seem an unlikely scenario, it is the scenario that the evidence fits."
"Maybe we don't really have all the evidence." Trip uncrossed his legs and leaned back, stretching them.
"What do you mean?" T'Pol asked.
"What do we know about that electromagnetic interference? You know," he flicked a hand dismissively through the air, "the stuff the Onarans swear up and down isn't adversely affecting our sensors. Because according to my diagnostics, the sensors are working just fine. The shuttle is working fine, the comm links are working fine…yet when I tried getting accurate readings on the Tubat itself I came up with conflicting results four times out of ten."
T'Pol's eyes widened at this news. "So it may be affecting our systems…"
"It sure is. It seems to cycle somehow, that's why it's hard to pinpoint its effects. Sometimes there's very little, other times it throws a whole slew of systems for a loop."
"Why would the Onarans claim ignorance to this?" T'Pol wondered. "It could have a very negative effect on their reclamation project."
"I don't know. Maybe they know more about it than they're saying. Or maybe there's too much time—and ego—wrapped up in this project to admit any kind of oversight. People will do strange things when their reputation is on the line," Trip reminded her. "Krevet and Teleel weren't too happy when we brought up that interference, I don't think they wanted to talk about it much."
"I suppose that is possible," T'Pol considered, "but I do not believe Dr. BenCour to be such a reserved individual."
"Yeah," Trip admitted, "me neither. But she doesn't seem to be around much lately, does she? I couldn't reach her and I've tried every half hour since that meeting with Krevet."
"So," T'Pol cocked her head to one side, "it is likely the Onarans do know about the electromagnetic interference but choose to remain secretive on that subject. Dr. BenCour is…unavailable, our sensors are intermittently not operating at their full capacity, and Lt. Reed is missing," she tallied.
"That's pretty much it," Trip sighed. It didn't look good.
"Another Thin Man," T'Pol said unexpectedly.
Trip gave her a crooked smile and laughed at her serious expression. "What?"
"It is similar to the problem we encountered at the Shomar Mining Facility: we have insufficient data to reach a satisfactory conclusion. We should approach it in a similar fashion."
"Like…Nick and Nora Charles?" Trip was still amused and a little touched that she came up with this analogy all by her Vulcan self. "Except that this Thin Man is Malcolm, and he's washed overboard." The thought sobered him immediately.
"All the more reason to develop a timely course of action," T'Pol noted. "I believe we should start by running a scan of the research vessel the Onarans recovered yesterday."
"We have data from it already," Trip countered. "The Onarans provided…" he trailed off, then smiled wryly at her. "Right, first thing, we get on that ship."
"Agreed." She nodded curtly. "Though our conversation has been helpful, you should rest now, Commander."
"What about you?"
"I will resume my duty shift and work with Hoshi on triangulating Malcolm's position when he sent his distress call."
Trip sat back and looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time all day. He'd been so caught up in worrying about Malcolm that he hadn't noticed the toll all of this seemed to be taking on T'Pol. In fact, he realized, he took it for granted that she would be able to cope with the situation better than he because of her ability to restrain emotional distress.
She sat before him, straight-backed and still, her hands folded tightly in her lap. This in itself was not entirely unusual, but here, in her meditation space, she usually relaxed more than this. "You look tense. Maybe you should take some extra time meditating," he suggested.
"I'm fine," she assured him, moving as though to rise. He put out a hand to stop her, catching her upper arm lightly.
"No, you're not. You've been edgy since we started this mission. You can't even loosen up in here." He wasn't going to let this drop so easily, not when he was positive she would do the same for him. He relaxed his hold but did not let go, and she did not pull away.
"I come here for mental rejuvenation. I do not always display it in the physical presence I project here."
"What's wrong?" he persisted.
She was silent for a long moment. Her eyes were lowered but he could see cracks of emotion run across her face as she waged some internal war, debating whether to trust him with whatever was bothering her. He held his breath and waited. Finally, with difficulty, she looked at him.
"This…planet…" she began tentatively.
"Yes?"
"It is…aqueous," she finished.
Trip waited, but nothing more came. "I'm not sure I understand," he finally prompted.
Then she did something that he'd never believed he would ever live to see. She sighed. It was barely perceptible, but it was there: a moment of long-suffering frustration that she was unable to suppress.
"Vulcan is not aqueous," she said pointedly.
"Wait…you're saying…you're not comfortable here, are you?" he asked, realization dawning. "The planet, it makes you nervous, doesn't it? All that water?"
"I would not put it in those terms, no." She looked slightly affronted. "I am simply…not at ease. It is not an environment I favor. Vulcans are not accustomed to being surrounded by water at all times, though I am told that some learn to enjoy it."
"But you lived near the ocean on Earth," Trip pointed out. "You weren't nervous there, were you?"
"I did not live near the shore, and it was easily avoided. I spent most of my time in the Vulcan Compound."
Trip digested this new information. He was relieved that it wasn't something more serious, and very pleased that she had decided to tell him this, but he felt bad for not noticing it sooner. Even before Malcolm had gone missing it had been bothering her, but he was to wrapped up in Onaran technology and figuring out how to get rid of those damn tea towels to see it. It couldn't be easy for her to admit something like this, something that for a Vulcan was akin to a full-blown phobia. Since they had been on Onara they hadn't even visited land—he'd never thought about how disconcerting that might be to someone from a planet as dry and terrestrial as Vulcan. Hell, he was from Earth and even he found it a little weird. How could he help, though? A thought occurred to him.
"T'Pol, do you know how to swim?"
She raised one eyebrow. "Of course. All Vulcan personnel stationed on Earth were required to learn. I cannot say I found the sensation agreeable, however."
"How about if I give you a refresher course?" he offered. "Either the next shore leave or the next time we're on Earth."
She shot him a suspicious look. "Are you certain this is not a ploy to initiate a change in my usual attire?" she asked.
"Am I trying to get you in a bathing suit?" he laughed. "Well, yes, but no, that wasn't my point. I love to swim and even though I don't know if you ever will, maybe I can help you be more comfortable around the water. It would be practical, you know, for future missions."
She considered this. "That would be…nice," she decided. Trip grinned and squeezed her hand, then stopped. They both looked down and realized that during the course of the conversation his hand worked its way down to hers and now held it firmly.
"Well, Commander…Trip," she said awkwardly, still looking at his hand. "I believe you should get some rest now."
"As long as you promise to take a few more minutes to meditate here," he insisted. When she tilted her head in acquiescence he gave her hand one last squeeze before letting go. The room started to drift away and he felt unconsciousness seeping into his mind's eye.
"Trip," he heard T'Pol call softly as he left her, "thank you."
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Everything he'd ever read about it said that island life was supposed to be calm, peaceful, relaxing. "In other words," Malcolm muttered to himself, "boring."
He sat down heavily by the communications equipment he'd lugged from the ship and adjusted it for the millionth time. It was as finely tuned as he could get it; he was pretty sure the beacons he'd managed to set up were working and he was getting a good comm signal. He'd set a new continuous message and updated it frequently, just to be sure anyone listening knew that he was alive and waiting for rescue.
Even on dry land he was still having trouble getting a fix on his own location: most of the navigation instrumentation on the ship refused to work correctly. The computer seemed to change its mind with alarming frequency as to his latitude and longitude, a fact that disturbed him greatly now that he was no longer moving through the ocean. He remained calm by assuring himself that on a planet where land was a scarce and valuable resource, even this tiny chain of islands must be charted.
Lately he was spending a lot of time trying to keep calm and reassured. He'd fully explored his tiny island within an hour, from shore to shore, and now sat at its highest point, observing his current situation both physically and metaphorically. Rocking slightly just off the shore sat the boat, grounded firmly against a rising tide. Malcolm doubted the tide would carry it out again—it was far too heavy and had firmly entrenched itself along what appeared to be a reef. He's removed some necessary equipment and supplies and was just wondering where he would less rather spend the night, assuming he wasn't found before then. The vessel was on the water, which didn't thrill him, but the island meant sleeping out in the open surrounded by endless ocean. Neither option was particularly appealing.
No, he would leave that question for now. He might not even have to ponder it again, if he were lucky—and he had to admit, he usually was. He wondered what his colleagues were doing right now: were they worried, where were they searching, were they having problems locating him? They must be, he concluded, even with all this water his bio-sign should have been spotted by now. Had they gotten any of his messages? Unbidden, he thought of Hoshi, sitting at her console, searching the airwaves for him. She would look, he knew, until she found him. She would have faith that he was still alive. The thought comforted Malcolm a great deal.
He opened the communication channel again and reset his message, hoping he didn't sound too desperate or worried, then examined the gear he's brought with him from the ship. Picking up a squarish container, he turned it over a few times before tentatively peeling away a portion of is metallic covering. Lowering his nose to it, he breathed in carefully.
Hmm. Not bad. Not great, but not bad, he thought. "Dinner," he declared out loud.