Ghost Ship

By Ancastar

Chapter 5

"So you're saying he just disappeared?"

Captain Archer was certain his question sounded harsh, perhaps even accusatory, as if he somehow blamed two of his senior officers for the loss of a third.

"He did, sir," a pale and subdued Malcolm Reed assured him. "At least…I think he must have. The last time I saw Trip he was on the floor of the Br'Teyn's cargo bay, trying to use his communicator to call for evacuation. Only he couldn't get a signal, the machine was causing too much interference. When T'Pol and I got back to Enterprise, the sensors read no one in the cargo hold, no one onboard the ship at all."

Jon believed Malcolm told him the truth. But somehow he still had trouble taking it all in. How could Trip have disappeared like that, so suddenly, without any real warning?

"I shouldn't have left him," Malcolm continued, his voice gruff and soft. "He asked me to, but I shouldn't have listened. I should have figured out a way to get us all out of there."

Lips pressed thin, Jon shook his head. He knew where this was going, and no way was he going to let the man standing before him take the journey. "Malcolm, you told me Trip had injured himself when the canisters fell."

The lieutenant nodded, the dip of his head seemingly reluctant. "Yes, sir. I think he hit his head, and…and he couldn't stand. I don't know what was wrong, but his right ankle wouldn't hold his weight. He must have broken it or badly sprained it somehow when the drums came down on him. He…he tried to crawl after us. We both knew he wasn't going to make it."

Jon had to look away at that. He didn't want to think about it, to picture it in his head. What must have run through Trip's mind as he struggled to follow his crewmates to safety on his hands and knees, knowing all the while he would be far too slow to survive?

"It's my fault, sir," Malcolm said, interrupting Jon's ruminations. "I knocked over those canisters, making it impossible for Trip to get out of there on his own. But even before that…I knew the machine was potentially dangerous. I should have insisted the commander leave it alone the minute it came to life. If I had, he'd be alive right now."

Jon shook his head again, half in denial of Malcolm's guilt and half in recognition that the lieutenant's reaction was to be expected. "Malcolm, you had no way of knowing something like this could happen."

"That the bloody thing would wipe my friend from the universe?" Malcolm queried, self-directed anger glittering in his eyes. "No, I suppose I didn't. But I certainly knew the potential for disaster was aboard that ship. The fact that we found it empty was proof enough of that."

"And I'm sure you took what precautions you believed necessary," Jon said soothingly.

"Even if I did, they certainly weren't enough."

"T'Pol told me you urged Trip and her to leave the machine alone. Is that true?"

"Not until…"

"Is that true?"

Malcolm's jaw clenched shut so tightly Jon was positive he heard the man's teeth collide, the sound reminding him of billiard balls ricocheting off each other. Silent, he held his armory officer's gaze until the other man was forced to mumble, "Yes, sir."

Jon smiled, his expression more fond than amused. "And I'll bet Trip asked you to wait until he could figure out how the thing worked, and T'Pol backed him up because she was just as curious in her own way as Trip."

Malcolm said nothing, refusing to confirm Jon's guess.

"Am I right?" Jon prodded, needing Malcolm to recognize the decisions made had not been his alone.

Eyes dipping to the floor, Malcolm shook his head. "If I had been a little more persuasive, Trip might still be alive."

Jon took a step nearer and placed his hand on Malcolm's shoulder. "Malcolm, you can't take responsibility for something like this. You might as well blame the J'Hardinne. Or me. Don't torture yourself. Trip wouldn't want that. I know if given the choice you would trade places with him in a second.

At that, Malcolm lifted his head. Jon could see his eyes were reddened and damp. "I would, you know."

Jon nodded, his own eyes threatening to sting. "I do. And so does Trip. Believe that."

Malcolm nodded again, but didn't speak.

"You managed to save one of your two crewmates, Lieutenant," Jon said, his hand sliding down to give Malcolm's arm a squeeze before releasing it. "T'Pol tells me if you hadn't literally carried her out of there, she would have been lost as well."

"The sub-commander was incapacitated," Malcolm said, visibly pulling himself together. "That horrible noise coming from the machine nearly leveled her. I got her away from there as quickly as I could."

"And she thanks you for it," Jon assured him. "So do I."

"Thank you, sir."

Jon inclined his head. "I'm sure she'll be expressing her appreciation to you herself once she's feeling better."

"Is T'Pol still in Sickbay?" Malcolm asked, obviously troubled by the notion.

"Not any more," Jon told him. "Phlox released her just before I came here to meet with you. She's going to be fine with a little rest. I told her to go to her quarters and take it easy. I'd taken her statement while Phlox was checking her out. There's no need for her to be on duty for the next day or two."

Malcolm bobbed his head in response, then hesitated before asking, "Captain…will there be a memorial service for Commander Tucker?"

Jon hadn't really thought that far ahead. He hadn't even had the chance to do any of his own grieving for his friend. "Yes. Yes, of course. We need to do that. I'll talk to the crew about a date and time."

"Yes, sir."

"Malcolm, why don't you go get some rest yourself?" Jon said, circling around to stand behind his desk, striving with everything in him to keep his voice gentle. At the best of times his security officer was tightly wound. Now, with guilt and grief eating away at Malcolm, the lieutenant reminded him of nothing so much as a thoroughbred ready to shy at the slightest shadow. "I know how hard this has been for you—"

"Sir, I don't need any special consideration," Malcolm protested, drawing himself up to his full yet not particularly impressive height. "I assure you my personal feelings in no way impede my ability to perform my duties."

"I know that, Lieutenant," Jon replied, slipping effortlessly into Captain mode, sensing that was what his subordinate needed. "I didn't mean to imply you're somehow unfit for duty. I'm not offering you anything I don't intend to take myself."

"Sir?" Malcolm queried, brow wrinkled.

"The chance to mourn. I'm going to take the opportunity to mourn the loss of a good man. As your captain and your friend, I advise you to do the same," Jon said quietly, trying to ignore the way his throat thickened, making the words difficult to voice. "Trip deserves it, Malcolm. He deserves to be missed. Take the time to do that. For yourself and for him."

Malcolm looked like he wanted to say more, though whether it might have been to argue or acquiesce, Jon couldn't tell. In the end, the lieutenant only whispered, "Yes, sir."

"Dismissed," Jon told him with a small smile.

With one final nod, Malcolm exited the ready room, leaving Jon alone. The moment the doors slid shut, the captain dropped into his chair, rested his elbows on his desk and lowered his head into his hands.

Jesus.

Trip.

Jon knew he really shouldn't be as hard hit by what had happened as he was. After all, everyone onboard the Enterprise knew there were risks inherent in their mission—hostile first contacts, unknown pathogens, mechanical malfunctions. The crew accepted the dangers as part of the package, as the things you didn't want to write about to the folks back home. They had lost people before, of course. Dedicated members of Starfleet, brave individuals, good friends.

But Jon hadn't known any of those fallen crew members for close to ten years, hadn't stumbled home from the 602 Club with his arm wrapped around them, unsure who was holding up who, or spent Thanksgiving at their parents' home, stuffed so full of barbequed turkey and cornbread dressing he thought he'd never need to eat again.

Jon hadn't actually allowed himself to contemplate losing someone as dear to him as Trip. Trip's death tore a hole not only in the fabric of the Enterprise's command structure, but in Jon's own heart. The two men weren't just friends. Jon had loved the guy like family.

Oh God. How was he ever going to break the news to Mr. & Mrs. Tucker?

Sighing, Jon sat back and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Thankfully, he didn't need to face that particular challenge just yet. He would notify Starfleet tonight, but would wait to speak with the Tuckers until the following day. He saw no harm in allowing the couple to believe their son was alive and well for one more evening. He only wished he could accept that particular fiction as truth for awhile longer himself.

Jon suspected many of Enterprise's crew felt the same way.

Standing, Jon stretched out his lower back, wincing with satisfaction when he felt something pop at the base of his spine. It was late, but he still had so much to do. Not only did he need to record his official log of the Br'Teyn incident, but he had to notify Admiral Forrest, who had been sequestered when Jon had tried to reach the man earlier, speak to Lt. Hess about coverage in Engineering, figure out what the hell he was going to do about a memorial service for Trip, and hopefully have some kind of meaningful conversation with a member of the J'Hardinne Resettlement Committee. Unfortunately, he doubted that last item would be crossed off his to-do list before bed.

Jon had put in a call to the committee as soon as he had learned of Trip's fate, demanding to know what onboard the Br'Teyn could have resulted not only in Trip's death, but in the deaths of the Br'teyn's passengers and crew. The senior official with whom he had spoken, a tall slender man named Minister Ku'Sateen, who had an aquiline nose, pronounced widow's peak and a mane of wavy silver hair that hung past his waist, had reacted with surprise to the news, claiming he knew of no such device. The minister had proposed calling together the rest of the committee to apprise them of what had occurred and to ask for their counsel, warning Jon this could take some time. With the J'Hardinne people scattered as they were throughout the galaxy, the committee members would first need to be located, then transported to a common location. Ku'Sateen had asked for patience, saying he would do all he could to speed the process. At the time, seeing no better recourse, Jon had reluctantly agreed.

However, spent as he now was, both physically and emotionally, Jon felt his frustration rekindling. He needed answers, damn it. Trip might be beyond Jon's ability to save, but that didn't mean the person or persons responsible for the engineer's death should be allowed to go unpunished. Whether it was malice or negligence, the guilty parties had to be brought to justice. And they would. Jon swore it, to himself and to Trip.

Shaking his head at the melodramatic turn his thoughts had taken, Jon crossed wearily to one of the room's built-in cabinets. He opened the cupboard, reached inside, and pulled out a bottle of amber colored liquid.

"I had hoped to crack you open for a happier occasion than this," Jon said, lifting the bottle to eye level. "But Trip deserves the best."

Taking the bottle's cap in hand, Jon gave it a firm twist, breaking open the container's seal. Immediately, the rich, smoky sweet scent of Irish whiskey wafted free.

"I bet Zefram Cochrane never thought his bottle of whiskey would be used to toast the dead," Jon murmured, pouring a measure into a tumbler on his desk. "Did he, dad?"

Setting the bottle down, Jon raised his glass. Taking a deep breath, he said, voice strong and steady, "To two of the men most responsible for Enterprise, her fine fast engines, and the success of her mission—my father, Henry Archer, and Starfleet's first true Chief Engineer, Charles Tucker III—both taken too young, both dearly missed."

Downing the whiskey in a single gulp, Jon closed his eyes as he reveled in the liquor burning its way down his gullet, the initial fire mellowing to a nice gentle warmth. Standing there, blind to his surroundings and lost in his melancholy, Jon was startled into awareness by a strange sound; a twirling followed by a soft thud. He opened his eyes, searching for the source of the disturbance. When he found it, he frowned in confusion.

The bottle cap lay on the floor, inches from the desk.

"How did that happen?" Jon wondered, setting down his glass.

He hadn't felt any sort of mild turbulence or shuddering. The desk was level and nothing else had been affected.

"Guess it was closer to the edge than I thought," Jon murmured with a shrug, reaching down to retrieve the round piece of plastic.

And screwing the top back on the bottle, he thought no more about it.

Long after Captain Archer had put both Porthos and himself to bed, T'Pol sat cross-legged on the floor in her quarters, barefoot and pajama-clad. Her eyes were shut, her breathing slow and deep. Seemingly the very picture of tranquility, she willed herself to stop shaking.

The trembling was normal, Phlox had assured her in Sick Bay, a by-product of the internal beating her nervous system had suffered. It would pass in the next eight to twelve hours. He could offer her a sedative if she liked, something to help her sleep. When she awoke, all would be good as new.

Except Commander Tucker. He wouldn't be there to greet her when she opened her eyes, smiling at her in welcome as he so often had when he caught sight of her.

Because he was dead.

And T'Pol had been unable to do anything to save him.

Logically, she knew she could have done nothing to prevent the commander's death. No one had recognized the full measure of danger onboard the Br'Teyn. They had been given no warnings by the J'Hardinne, no true idea of what had awaited them. The hours they had spent investigating the upper two decks had lulled the away team into a false sense of security. By the time they had realized what was happening, she was clinging like a limpet to Lieutenant Reed, who was doing everything in his meager power to get the two of them out of harm's way.

While they had fled, the lieutenant had been focused solely on her. No one had been available to help Commander Tucker. His two friends had left him behind, wounded and utterly vulnerable.

And even though she knew neither she nor Lieutenant Reed had possessed any other options, T'Pol couldn't help but feel as if they had failed Commander Tucker…Trip, had deserted him in a way he never would have done to them if their positions have been reversed.

It was an emotional response, of course, colored by her affection for Enterprise's chief engineer and her guilt at his demise, a reaction devoid of reason, unsupported by fact.

Yet her response was true and honest just the same, and so painful at that moment, T'Pol wondered if she would ever fully recover.

She had tried on more than one occasion to explain to Commander Tucker the motivation behind a Vulcan's need for emotional suppression. While she believed the commander had understood the reasoning involved, he never seemed to fully appreciate the choice.

"So you don't allow yourself to feel anything?" he had once queried, seemingly appalled at the notion. The two of them had been sitting across from each other, sharing a table in the mess hall. They had stayed up late, working in tandem to align the sensor array at her station. No one else had been about that night; they had enjoyed the place all to themselves.

"It is not that we do not feel," she had said, correcting him, her hands wrapped loosely around her mug of chamomile tea. "We simply control our reactions."

He had frowned at that. "But why would you want to do that?"

"Because to give in to our emotions would be to open a door to our most primitive natures."

"Primitive, huh?" he had teased with a mock leer before dropping the pose when faced with her annoyance. Chuckling to himself despite her censure, he had taken a sip of his coffee.

"Vulcans were not always as we are now," she had said, striving for a calm, reasonable tone. "We were once ruled by our passions—anger, lust, jealousy. These base emotions controlled our actions to an often hazardous degree."

"You're saying you were a danger to yourselves."

"Indeed."

"Okay. I guess I can understand what you're saying, T'Pol," Trip had admitted. "But you gotta appreciate where I'm coming from."

"And where would that be?"

Trip had smiled. "You Vulcans aren't willing to feel because you don't want to become less than you are."

She had dipped her head in agreement. "That is correct."

"And I can see how you might feel that way, especially given your history" he had continued. "But sometimes…sometimes giving in to your emotions can make you more than you are. Better, even."

"In what way?" she had asked before drinking from her mug.

He had considered a moment before answering. "Well…with love for example."

"Love?"

"Sure. Earth cultures have cliché upon cliché built around that very thing," he had said, warming to his subject. "The love of a good woman reforming a bad man, how being in love makes you feel like you can climb mountains—or move them. Love makes the world go 'round! Don't know where I heard that one, but I know it's so."

"It would seem to me the saying is rather one of those clichés to which you referred," she had chided, her tone dry.

Trip had chuckled again, refusing to be swayed. "Maybe. But that doesn't make it any less true."

She hadn't replied, knowing no matter what she had said, the commander would remain unmoved. Instead, she had finished her tea and considered turning in for the night.

"Do Vulcans fall in love?" Trip had asked without warning, his quiet question taking her off guard after their moment of companionable silence.

"We feel affection for our friends and family," she had responded after a beat, choosing her words with care.

"I didn't ask you that," Trip had scolded, his voice gentle, almost intimate. "I asked if you loved. The romantic kind, you know? Roller coasters and fireworks. Your heart beating so hard you're sure it's going to burst right through your clothes when you cozy up for a kiss. The sort where everything in a room stops, literally stands still, when that one special person walks in the door. Have you ever felt like that?"

"No," she had whispered, her throat suddenly dry, despite the tea. "I have not."

"You will," he had assured her. "Or you could, if you'd let yourself."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Why wouldn't you?"

"Because of how I would undoubtedly feel when it was over," she had argued, feeling the need to push back, to regain a little of her confidence and authority. "You speak of the wonders of love, its magical qualities. And yet, it is ephemeral, is it not? It does not last."

"It can," he had said with certainty.

"Have you loved?" she had asked him, already sure of his response. "In the way in which you described to me."

"Yes."

"And was it forever?"

Trip had paused before offering her a rueful smile and a soft, "No."

She had thought she would feel a measure of satisfaction in forcing the commander to acknowledge a weakness in his case. But instead, she had felt…petty and small.

Less than what she had wanted to be.

"But that doesn't mean I'm throwing in the towel."

She had lifted her eyes from their focus on her hands. Trip had been looking at her, seemingly unaffected by her meanness. Instead he had regarded her with a warmth she had not anticipated.

"I've been kicked around a little by love, T'Pol," he had told her. "Got a little roughed up some. But that's okay. You've got to take the bitter with the sweet. That's how you recognize the good stuff when you've got it."

"It does not…bother you to be hurt unnecessarily?" she had queried, a trifle hesitant with her questioning. "You welcome such pain?"

He had laughed. "Oh, I don't know about that. 'Welcome' might be a bit strong," he had allowed. "Nobody goes into a relationship hoping to come out of it feeling bad. But if you're honest with yourself, you always know it's a possibility."

"I do not see the logic in such an action," she had said, ignoring the little voice inside her head insisting otherwise.

"I don't imagine you do," he had said, smiling still. "And that's okay. But take it from someone who knows. The pain is worth it. Every minute of it."

"Why?"

"Because the other…the sweet part…is everything the poets promise and more," he had said, his words light though his eyes were serious. "You never feel more alive. More…more than you are."

She had said nothing in reply, choosing instead to merely lift her brow.

"I wish that for you, T'Pol," Trip had said, looking at her intently, ignoring her implied skepticism. "To feel love that strongly. It's a gift. It truly is."

At the time, the commander's words had touched her, made her feel cherished somehow, cared for by this man she called her friend. Commander Tucker had wanted something for her he himself coveted. She might not value such a gift, but he had. And that had meant something.

But now…now she wanted no part of it, of love. Ever. Commander Tucker had not been her lover. Indeed, there had been times they had had trouble even being civil to each other. And yet, she felt his death keenly, like a physical wound. Something ached inside her, buried so deeply, yet so centrally the pain seemed to originate from that spot and radiate throughout her being. If mere friendship could hurt that badly, how would she ever survive romantic love?

She didn't know if she had the courage to find out.

Closing her eyes, she deepened her breathing, banishing her scattered thoughts, her wayward emotions, choosing instead to focus on the physical, on that which she could control.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Slowly, the agitation she had struggled with began to subside, her muscles loosened and stilled, the tremors coursing through her body easing. Gradually her psyche released its commonplace cares and concerns, and T'Pol entered a light meditative state.

She drifted there, enjoying the calm, allowing her energy to be refreshed and refocused. Her senses expanded. Lashes lowered, her mind's eye was sharp, sharing detailed images of past visions and inner vistas. She could smell the buttery odor of wax from the room's burning candles. Feel the cool, slippery fabric of her pajamas against her skin. Taste on her tongue the lingering bitterness of the tea she had drunk after returning to her quarters. Even her battered hearing opened up and shared with her the hushed humming of Enterprise's systems, the minute creaks and squeaks as the ship's massive frame shifted in flight.

T'Pol relaxed into it, gave herself over to the healing otherness obtained only when an individual becomes so aware, they're not aware at all. Until…

…the slightest, slightest hint of a breeze lifted the hair feathered across her brow.

The airy caress startled her, unexpected as it was, and pulled her back to the present. She opened her eyes.

And saw nothing. Nothing unusual. The cabin was just as it had appeared before she had begun her meditation, everything perfectly in order save for the mug on her desk and the numerous flickering candles dripping wax from a half dozen different positions around her quarters. Despite the tapers' glow, the room remained dim, the pools of light surrounded by far more shadow. T'Pol stared into the darkness with an intensity she did not fully understand. What did she hope to see? Nothing was there. She was alone in her room.

Wasn't she?

Unsettled, yet unable to pinpoint why, she closed her eyes once more. This time, she had not even settled in to a comfortable seated position when she felt the breeze again, gentle and cool, but stronger this time, more like wind than draft, stirring her hair and ruffling her clothing. She opened her eyes…

To find half her candles had been snuffed. The room was even darker than before.

"Who is there?" T'Pol asked, coming to her knees, her gaze searching. "Is someone present?"

No one answered. No voice, that is. But she heard another sound.

It came from her desk. She turned her head in that direction.

Her empty mug was shuddering, trembling as if caught in an earthquake.

Yet everything else in the cabin stood rock steady and still. Including T'Pol.

Pressing to her feet, she crossed to the desk and looked down at the jittering cup. Watching it dance for a moment or two, she turned away and retrieved her scanner from the shelf above her bed. Punching a series of buttons, she analyzed the object and its phenomenon. The findings were inconclusive. Slight difference in temperature, slight surge in electrical activity. Otherwise, nothing particularly unusual to note. She reached out her hand to stop the rapid, restless motion.

The cup was cold against her palm, and willing to be subdued.

Setting aside her scanner, T'Pol considered for a moment, then headed towards the comm panel beside the door. She did not know what to make of these strange occurrences. She would need assistance to run a more detailed analysis. Perhaps Phlox's expertise…

T'Pol

She stopped, her fingers poised at the keypad. The tiny, nearly invisible hairs on the back of her neck lifted away from her skin.

T'Pol

The word made itself known to her more as breath than sound. She couldn't really hear a voice. She more felt her name, the air it took to form it, the desperate intent it took to give it shape.

"Who is this?" she called, sounding surer than she actually felt. "What do you want?"

She received no reply.

"I cannot understand you," she said, speaking slowly and clearly, eyes hunting for clues. "What is your purpose?"

The answer came, not in words, but in pictures. In the opposite corner of her room, a faint glow appeared, the light hovering at eye level, foggy and indistinct. The glimmer ebbed and flowed, twisted and slithered, like smoke from a cigarette. Cautiously, T'Pol edged closer, wishing for her scanner, but worried that if she turned her back, even for an instant, the odd phenomenon would vanish.

Patiently, she watched, waited. She wasn't certain, but she thought she could see something in the mist. Some shape forming, a pattern of sorts that was familiar, though she couldn't immediately identify it.

"What are you?" she murmured, resisting the urge to reach out and touch the entity. She could have; she stood little more than arm's length away. But she refrained. "Why are you here?"

Again, she heard no response, and yet she sensed that whatever this was wanted something from her, that it was waiting for her to take some sort of action. She sensed no real threat.

Only need. A deep, sorrowful need.

She sensed…

The creature had made itself known when T'Pol had been meditating. Perhaps her heightened mental state had made such communication possible.

Folding gracefully to the floor, T'Pol settled once more into her meditative posture. Eyes open and trained on the milky field of light, she took care to reduce her rate of breathing while also deepening the amount of oxygen she inhaled until she had regained an easy, effortless rhythm. At the same time, blinking slowly, she allowed her vision to lose its focus. Soon all she surveyed blurred, like watercolors bleeding into thick paper. Still, she could see.

And what she saw astonished her.

All at once, the luminous cloud transformed, its new contours easily recognized by T'Pol, even with her compromised vision.

"Commander Tucker," she whispered from her seat on the floor. "Are you haunting me?"

To Be Continued in Chapter Six