Ghost Ship
by Ancastar
Thanks for reading. I hope you're enjoying the ride. I made a few changes (a very few) to the original chapter six posted last night. Most folks probably won't notice much different. But I hope this version reads a bit smoother. Happy fanfic reading.
Chapter Six
It took two chirps of his comm panel and an answering whine from Porthos before Jonathan Archer lifted his head from the pillow and glanced over at his chronometer.
What the hell. It wasn't even 0500.
Rolling to his elbows, he shook his head, striving to clear it. He had actually heard the digital summons the first time around, yet hadn't been entirely convinced the sound was real. He hadn't gotten a lot of rest in the hours before, but what shut-eye he had managed to nab had been plagued by strange dreams.
Every one of them revolving around Trip.
Jon had never caught a glimpse of his friend, but he knew without question the engineer had been present in each scenario. Sometimes the setting had been Jon's apartment in San Francisco, sometimes it had been the tent Jon had shared with Trip in the outback during their survival training, other times it had been Jon's ready room onboard Enterprise or some other space in which Jon and Trip had spent significant time together. The location had varied, but in every instance, Jon had sensed Trip standing unseen on the other side of the door, waiting for his captain to allow him entrance.
Jon had done his very best to welcome the man home. He had turned knobs, pushed buttons, wrestled with canvas flaps and more. All to no avail. Regardless of his efforts, each and every door had remained stubbornly closed. Now, sitting blearily on the side of his bed, Jon tried something he had never thought to attempt in dreams.
"Come in," he called, dragging his fingers through his hair like a makeshift comb. Porthos reacted to the directive as if it had been intended for him. The little beagle hopped out of his doggy bed and padded over to sit at Jon's feet.
Almost at once, the door slid open to reveal T'Pol. However, standing before Jon was not the polished Vulcan officer on whom he had come to rely. In her place was simply a woman, dressed in pale blue pajamas and a flowing brocade robe, her feet bare, her eyes over bright. Although he didn't know the cause, Jon could tell T'Pol was agitated. Her slender form practically quivered with excitement.
"Sub-Commander," Jon said, pressing to his feet, conscious suddenly of his state of undress. He was clad only in his pajama bottoms. "What's going on? Is there something wrong?"
"Captain," T'Pol said, ignoring his questions and taking a step towards him, "I require your assistance."
"Of course, T'Pol," Jon assured her, concern mounting. "What is it? What do you need?"
"A Ouija board," she said without hesitation. "I must try again to communicate with Commander Tucker."
"I assure you, Doctor. I am perfectly well."
"I believe that is actually my call, Sub-Commander," Phlox chided, his gaze switching back and forth between his scanner and his most unwilling patient.
When the captain had contacted Sick Bay, saying he was bringing in his first officer to get checked out, Phlox had expected the Vulcan to be in some way weakened, stricken with a headache perhaps or impaired vision or hearing. Such was not the case. Even dressed only in sleepwear, T'Pol was a formidable woman, and most definitely not appreciative of her captain's concern. "According to these readings you are not, in fact, entirely well. Your blood pressure is elevated and your electrolytes are decidedly imbalanced. These symptoms are most certainly tied to what happened to you aboard the Br'Teyn."
"Could what happened onboard the Br'Teyn also be the cause of T'Pol's…?" Jon left the end of his question unspoken, choosing instead to gesture vaguely with his hands. Phlox tried very hard not to chuckle at his captain's discomfiture. Not that he could blame the man. The glare T'Pol was currently directing Jon's way would be enough to make even the most stalwart individual squirm.
"I see no reason to believe what happened to T'Pol could lead to hallucinations, Captain," the physician said with a helpful smile. "I assume that's what you were getting at. Rest assured her symptoms are treatable with some light medication and a good night's sleep."
"I did not hallucinate," T'Pol said, her words enunciated slowly and precisely, as if she were speaking to idiots. Which, Phlox reflected, probably wasn't all that far from the truth—at least as viewed through T'Pol's eyes. "I swear to you, Captain. I saw Commander Tucker in my quarters."
Jon sighed and rubbed his palm across his morning stubble. "T'Pol, I know you believe you saw him. But did you ever stop to think that this…vision…might have another cause, that you may have imagined seeing Trip simply because you were tired, and sad and…thinking of him?"
"No." T'Pol's countenance could have been a mask for all the emotion it imparted.
"Giving in to grief is nothing to be ashamed of," Jon said, forging on, a sympathetic smile firmly in place. "Hell, I dreamed about Trip last night—"
"I was not dreaming, Captain. What I saw was real. Commander Tucker was there."
Shaking his head as if unable to come up with still another rebuttal, Jon looked to Phlox for support. The Denobulan was happy to help, but wasn't quite certain yet just whose side of the argument he was on.
"Sub-Commander, what do you believe happened in your quarters?" the doctor asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "How is it, do you think, that Commander Tucker was able to appear to you?"
T'Pol frowned as she considered how best to respond. "I do not know. I was unable to complete a detailed analysis of the occurrence. I am certain, however, the commander was trying to communicate, first by telekinesis, then by manifesting."
"What do you think he was trying to say, T'Pol?" Jon asked, taking a step towards where the Vulcan sat, perched on the edge of a bio-bed. "And why do you feel he came to you to say it?"
T'Pol looked away, her lips pressed flat. "I do not know that either. The commander's features were difficult to make out. I was unable to hear him or see his expression clearly enough to discern what he was trying to impart. What I can tell you is the only time I was able to see him at all was while I was maintaining a relaxed meditative state."
"Why the Ouija board, then?" Jon queried, arms spread open. "If you want to attempt to communicate with Trip, why not simply try meditating again?"
T'Pol shook her head, seemingly frustrated with this line of conversation. "I tried that. I was unable to maintain contact with him for long periods of time. I found the exercise too…tiring."
"Which was no doubt due, at least in part, to the strain your body has been under the last 24 hours," Phlox said briskly, inserting himself into the discussion. "You need to rest, Sub-Commander. Your health has not yet been severely compromised, but I can't promise that won't change if you don't take care of yourself."
"But Commander Tucker—"
"Sadly, isn't going anywhere," Phlox said quietly, hoping his lack of volume somehow tempered his harsh words. "I'm sorry to say that, but it's true. If you want to try and contact him you're more likely to be successful if you're rested enough to concentrate."
"Doctor?" Jon asked, clearly surprised by Phlox's apparent support for the venture.
"I don't see the harm, Captain," the physician said, turning to address his commanding officer. "What if T'Pol is right and Commander Tucker is somehow reaching out to her? We should do all we can to assist him in that endeavor, should we not?"
"You believe in ghosts now too?" Jon asked, his brow wrinkled in disbelief.
Phlox shrugged. "I believe in T'Pol's honesty. She can have no ulterior motive in this, nor is the activity in any way dangerous. She believes in what she has seen. I see no reason not to encourage her."
"You don't?" Jon asked, clearly able to come up with at least one or two reasons himself.
Phlox smiled. "The Denobulan scientific community is split in its beliefs regarding what happens to us when we pass on. Some feel a kind of energy is released back into the cosmos upon death, others believe the process is more like a battery running out, energy being utterly depleted at the end rather than set free."
"And the afterlife?" Jon queried, folding his arms over his t-shirted chest.
Phlox lifted his brows. "Our religious teachings encourage us to believe in the constancy of our souls. But like so many other spiritual systems, the writings are a bit hazy when it comes to detailing how that tenet meshes with what we know of biology."
"Captain," T'Pol said, sliding off the bio-bed to stand between the two men. "I am not delusional, nor is what happened in my quarters the result of any lingering neurological disorder. I saw what I have told you I saw."
Nodding, Jon turned to more closely regard his second-in-command. Reaching out, he placed his hands on her shoulders. "T'Pol, I'm sorry if I've made you feel as if I doubt your judgment. My caution only comes as a result of experience.
"I know how the mind can play tricks on a person when they've experienced a loss. I've seen men hold entire conversations with dead colleagues or family members, witnessed how an event can get so twisted by an emotional response that history is remembered falsely. Trip's death is very…new. It's bound to impact his friends in ways we can't even begin to anticipate. That's just human nature."
T'Pol returned his gaze, unblinking. "Let me remind you, sir, I am not human."
Jon chuckled wryly and released her arms. "As if I could forget. I know your emotional responses tend to be somewhat different than most of the rest of the crew. But let me remind you, Sub-Commander—you have lived among us for awhile now. I wouldn't be surprised if a few of our less logical traits have had the opportunity to rub off."
T'Pol's only response was the lift of a delicately arched brow.
"Captain?"
A new, softly accented voice interrupted the proceedings. The threesome turned as one to find Malcolm Reed standing just inside the entrance to Sick Bay. Although Phlox couldn't be certain as to the reason for the lieutenant's visit, he thought perhaps the man might have come looking for the 21st century equivalent of the old prairie oyster cure. Judging from the Englishman's watery eyes, the pinched lines bracketing mouth, and the way he held his head as if he expected at any moment for it to shatter atop his neck, Phlox guessed Malcolm might have indulged a bit the night before.
And was living to regret it the morning after.
"Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?" Phlox asked, crossing to the newcomer.
Malcolm glanced towards his commanding officer then back again. "I…uh…was on my way to see you, Doctor—headache—when I came across Ensign Pollard. She said she had seen the captain escorting Sub-Commander T'Pol to Sick Bay. Is everything all right?"
"Everything is fine, Lieutenant," T'Pol assured him, stepping away from the captain and towards the other two men.
"It was just a precaution, Malcolm," Jon added with a small smile. "We were actually on our way out."
"Lieutenant," T'Pol began, coming nearer still to Malcolm. "I wonder…did you experience any unusual circumstances last evening?"
"Unusual in what way?" Malcolm asked, forehead furrowed.
"Did you see or hear anything odd before you went to bed?" Jon asked, also taking a step now towards the lieutenant. "Have any funny dreams?"
Malcolm looked away, suddenly seemingly fascinated with the floor, before once again meeting his captain's eyes. Phlox didn't need any of his many degrees to recognize the armory officer's deep embarrassment.
"I'm afraid I was a bit out of it last night, sir. I took your advice and retired to my quarters. Once there, I pulled out a bottle of Scotch I'd been nursing these past several months to drink to Trip's memory. When I started, the bottle was over half full. By the time my head hit the pillow, it was empty. Sorry to say, I don't recall much after the fourth or fifth shot."
Jon smiled in understanding and shook his head. "Quite all right, Lieutenant. I'll admit, I followed a similar course of action myself."
"May I ask why you were inquiring, sir?" Malcolm asked, apparently thankful his captain was willing to overlook conduct unbecoming an officer.
"I was visited in my quarters last night by an entity that had the appearance of Commander Tucker," T'Pol said as calmly as if she had just recited that night's dinner menu.
"You saw Trip's ghost?" Malcolm asked, utterly incredulous.
"Quite possibly," T'Pol murmured, unmoved by the lieutenant's reaction. "It is that very prospect Captain Archer, the doctor and myself have been discussing."
"How is, rather…so, uh…so what conclusion have you reached?" Malcolm stammered, crossing his arms almost defensively against his chest.
"We are going to test my theory by holding what I believe is known as a séance," T'Pol told him, her expression bland as vanilla.
"Beg pardon?" Malcolm all but squeaked.
"T'Pol believes the only way to confirm her version of events is to attempt to contact Trip ourselves," Jon explained with a look in the direction of his science officer. She solemnly returned his gaze. "She thinks, given some strange incidences involving objects moving on their own, that a classic Ouija board may be the best way to proceed. After much consideration, I've decided it couldn't hurt to give it a try."
"Bloody hell," Malcolm murmured, sagging back against the row of cabinets, his eyes lowered.
"Are you all right, Lieutenant?" Phlox asked, bending down to try and get a look at the other man's face.
Malcolm lifted his head and let out a not entirely convincing chuckle. "I suppose so. At least, as well as I can expect to be with the devil's own hangover and a friend apparently trying to make contact from beyond the grave."
"It's hit all of us pretty hard, Malcolm," Jon said quietly.
"When are you planning to attempt this, sir?" Malcolm asked.
"At once," T'Pol answered promptly.
"This evening should be plenty early enough," Phlox said, smoothly contradicting the Vulcan.
"Captain!" T'Pol protested, appealing to her commanding officer.
Before Jon could speak, however, Phlox interceded once more. "I'm sorry, T'Pol. But as Commander Tucker, or whatever that was, appeared to you only when you were in a controlled mental state, it is of the utmost importance that you be rested and nourished before even attempting to contact him again. I can assist you with the former by administering a mild sedative. Once I do, I want you to sleep for at least eight hours and eat a nutritious meal. Then, and only then, will I give you medical leave to hold your séance."
"Such precautions are unnecessary, Doctor," T'Pol said tightly, her annoyance now focused squarely on the Denobulan rather than on her human captain. "I promise you."
"You heard the man, T'Pol," Jon said, seemingly pleased to have the heat off of him for a change and on to another member of the crew. "In medical matters, Dr. Phlox's authority supersedes mine."
T'Pol said nothing for a beat before capitulating. "Very well. If you would be so kind as to administer the sedative now, Doctor, I will return to my quarters. The sooner we can move forward with this endeavor, the better."
"1800 hours should be soon enough, Sub-Commander," Jon said, grinning when T'Pol's gaze grew thunderous. "You need your rest and the quartermaster needs to figure out how to fabricate an accurate Ouija board. I'll talk to him about it when I leave here."
"Fine," T'pol said shortly, her patience seemingly at an end. "We will meet in my quarters at 1800 hours. As that is where the entity first appeared, it seems only logical the ceremony should be held there."
"If you don't mind, I should like to attend," Phlox said with a smile. "If for no other reason than scientific curiosity."
"If I may," Malcolm interjected, his tone subdued, "I would like to be there as well. Trip was my friend. I want to hear what he has to say. Didn't really have an opportunity to say goodbye. It seems like this may be the best chance any of us will get."
T'Pol nodded, her expression grave. "Agreed. We four will meet in my room tonight. I would ask that none of you be late."
Malcolm had never really spent a great deal of time in T'Pol's quarters. He had been there once or twice before, of course, often in the company of Trip or the captain. But he had never done much more than take a quick peek inside. He had no clear memory of the room's décor or furnishings. Thus he was surprised to discover how intimate the chamber was, how much more personalized than his own rather Spartan accommodations. T'Pol had taken care to adorn the place with just enough pieces from her home world to give it true Vulcan character. The result was elegant, yet spare.
Not unlike the Sub-Commander herself.
"Lieutenant," T'Pol said, greeting him at the door, dressed in her customary one-piece uniform rather than pajamas he had seen her wear that morning. "Good of you to be on time. Once the doctor arrives, we can begin."
"Good evening, Sub-Commander," Malcolm said, stepping into the room. "I hope you're doing well."
T'Pol's tone was withering, although her answer was polite. "Yes, thank you. Doctor Phlox was correct. Sleep and nourishment were all that were required."
In preparation for the evening's activities, T'Pol had chosen to illuminate the room merely with flickering candlelight. Cushions were arranged in the center of the floor, surrounding a low table with an authentic Ouija board centered on top. The space had a hushed, expectant quality not unlike what Malcolm typically associated with church. He wondered if perhaps he should have taken his shoes off upon entering or at the very least have lowered his voice.
Moving further inside, Malcolm saw the captain standing by T'Pol's desk.
"Feeling better this evening, Malcolm?" Jon asked, a glint of humor in his eye.
"Yes, sir," Malcolm answered with a measure of chagrin. "Thank you for asking. You'd be amazed what dose of analgesic, a vitamin shot and a couple liters of water will do for a man."
"Not so amazed," Jon said with a rueful smile. "I've taken the cure a time or two myself."
Further conversation was curtailed by a blip from the comm panel. Phlox had arrived.
"I trust I haven't kept you waiting long," the Denobulan said as he bustled inside. "I was about to leave Sick Bay when Chef came in with a particularly nasty cut on his index finger. I've warned him about that cleaver of his."
Malcolm's still tender stomach rolled at the mental image the remark invoked. Glancing towards the captain, he saw Jon grimace as well.
"Not at all," T'Pol assured the physician, seemingly unaffected by Chef's cooking mishap. "You are actually not late at all. Gentlemen, if we may begin?"
Following their hostess' lead, the three men took their places at the table, the captain to T'Pol's right, Malcolm to her left, and Phlox sitting opposite.
"So how exactly is this thing supposed to work?" Malcolm queried, scrutinizing the archaic board.
"According to my research, we are to place our fingertips lightly on the planchette," T'Pol said.
"You mean this pointer?" Jon asked, gesturing to the device.
"Yes," T'Pol replied, tucking her legs comfortably beneath her. "Once we have relaxed and focused our energies, we should be able to invite the entity here and ask it questions. When that happens, this indicator should then slide and land on the being's responses."
"How do we know the creature we contact will be the same one you encountered last night," Phlox asked, sitting tailor style.
T'Pol hesitated, then shook her head. "We will not know for certain. At least not at first. I will endeavor to concentrate on the image I saw of Commander Tucker. Hopefully that will be enough to recall the same being. When it makes itself known we can ask it a question whose answer only the commander would know."
"That task is probably best left up to you, Captain," Phlox noted. "You knew the commander better than anyone."
Jon nodded.
"Very well," T'Pol said, reaching out her slender hands and balancing the pads of her fingers on the planchette. "Please ready yourselves. Close your eyes and focus on your breath. I will lead us through a brief relaxation exercise."
Malcolm did as he was asked, and turned his focus to the air rushing throughout his respiratory system. Eyes shut, he did his best to forget Enterprise and the men and women who lived onboard. Instead, he zeroed in on T'Pol's low, soothing voice.
"Inhale deeply through your nose and exhale through your mouth. Pay attention to the expansion and release of your rib cage. Feel the air fill your lungs, swelling the tissue like balloons."
This was all rather new to the lieutenant. Despite having spent a good portion of his childhood in Asia, he had never really taken to meditation. The best way he had ever found to release tension was in a gym, preferably with the use of a heavy punching bag.
"Allow yourself to let go of cares, abandon petty concerns. Focus only on the here and now. Be aware of the weight of your clothes, the temperature of the room, the sound of your breath."
Listening to her now, Malcolm was struck anew by how much he admired T'Pol's hard-won calm, the discipline with which she ran her life. Although their points of view were often poles apart, he acknowledged certain similarities between himself and his Vulcan crewmate. Both took themselves and their jobs very seriously, both came from families who disapproved of some of the choices they had made, both held themselves apart from many of their coworkers, sometimes without even meaning to.
Both had counted Trip amongst their dearest friends.
Malcolm had always marveled at that, how he and the laid-back southerner had grown so close so quickly. He recognized what had happened aboard Shuttlepod One had gone a long way towards cementing their friendship. But he knew the camaraderie that had flourished between them had actually started much earlier, probably not long after they had left space dock.
"As your awareness narrows and your existence centers only on what is happening in the present, here, in this room, you should feel a kind of buoyancy develop. Your muscles slacken, loose bulk and solidity. Your being becomes no weightier than a feather, floating on the air you continue to draw slowly and deeply into your lungs."
Malcolm would be lying if he said he hadn't sometimes envied Trip's ready charm, the way the engineer had been able to laugh at his mistakes while at the same time learning from them. Trip had been the kind of person it seemed you had always known, even if you had only spent an hour or two in his presence. He had understood who he was, and had been happy with that person.
"Please open your eyes while maintaining an even breathing pattern."
Maybe that was it. Trip had always been so comfortable in his own skin. Perhaps T'Pol and he had hoped a little of that ease would find its way to them.
"Gentlemen."
Again, Malcolm did as he was told, and opened his eyes. The captain and Phlox looked back at him, their gazes a trifle unfocused, yet both seemingly as centered and relaxed as he. Only T'Pol's eyes remained closed. No doubt to help maintain her meditative state, Malcolm mused. They were counting on her to be the lightning rod, to be the person to lure Trip—if that's really who he was—from his other place.
"Gently now, let us begin moving the planchette," T'pol instructed, her voice a low husky murmur. "Slowly, just to get the feel of it."
It took a moment for the four of them to move as one. But finally, allowing T'Pol to guide them in this as in all else, the small plastic pointer began to glide across the board. After a minute or two, Malcolm honestly couldn't tell who was directing the motion any longer. The device seemed to move of its own accord.
"We ask for Commander Charles Tucker III to join us," T'Pol whispered after a time, the soft words sending a shiver rolling down Malcolm's spine. T'Pol didn't sound like herself. She sounded…disconnected. Like she wasn't really there. "Trip? Can you hear us? We ask that you appear."
At first, nothing happened. Which came as a sort of relief to Malcolm. As greatly as he wanted to see his friend again, the Englishman had never held much with ghosts and spirits. Had he been asked, he would have stated most adamantly they didn't exist. Now, as he sat challenging that perspective, waiting to see if he had been wrong all these years, he was coming to realize he wasn't all that certain he wanted his world view altered. Malcolm would miss Trip until the day he died. But perhaps it would be for the best if the engineer had already moved on.
The universe was complicated enough without ghosts.
Then it began. Gradually. The increments so subtle, Malcolm didn't even notice anything at first.
Little by little, the temperature in the room began to drop, edging slowly down the scale until a slight chill hung in the air.
Then Malcolm became aware of something like tiny benign needles pricking at his skin. The sensation didn't hurt; rather it incited him somehow, as if the feeling was the physical manifestation of anticipation.
And finally, the planchette began move faster, swooping and swirling beneath their fingertips until it became clear to all who touched it, the pointer really was traveling under its own power.
Malcolm didn't know whether to be thrilled or terrified.
"Do you sense that?" Jon whispered, his eyes searching the darkened room.
"Yes," Phlox replied, the word equally soft and wary.
"He is here," T'Pol breathed, her chin tilting towards the ceiling.
And the planchette skimmed to the corner of the board…
…where landed on the word YES.
"Trip?" Jon ventured, his gaze returning to the board. "Is that you?"
The pointer moved away from YES only to quickly return.
"How can we know for sure?" Malcolm asked, looking over towards the captain, the adrenaline pumping through the armory officer obliterating all his former calm.
Jon frowned for a moment then said, "There was a time we double-dated. You set me up with the sister of a girl you were seeing and the four of us went out for Chinese at the Red Peony. What were the girls' last names?"
The planchette sat still for a moment as if in thought. Then it slid rapidly across the board, landing on letter upon letter, spelling furiously.
"D-E-L-A-N-E-Y," Malcolm reported aloud, feeling slightly silly as he read.
"Captain, is that correct?" Phlox queried, clearly excited by what was occurring.
Jon nodded and smiled. "Corrine and Patrice Delaney. Two redheaded Irishwomen with a weakness for rum and cokes and Starfleet officers in uniform."
"You'll have to tell us about them sometime, sir," Malcolm said with an answering lift of his lips.
"I have a story or two I can share," Jon assured him, his smile widening.
"Why are you here, Commander?" T'Pol asked, reminding them of their purpose, her head once again level, her eyes still sealed shut. "What is it you want?"
Again, the planchette hesitated before it moved. Finally though it bounced along the line of letters, landing on the four it needed.
"Help?" Phlox queried when the word became recognized. "Help who? Help us?"
The pointer felt as if it were vibrating beneath their fingers. Without warning, it darted first to one corner of the board, then the other.
"No, yes?" Jon said, perplexed by the response. "I don't understand. Which is it, Trip? Who needs help?"
The planchette circled lazily for a time before heading once more towards specific letters.
"J-H-A-R-D," Malcolm spelled before glancing at the others surrounding the board. "The J'Hardinne?"
Almost instantly the pointer shot to YES.
"Why?" Jon asked. "What can we do to help them?"
Surprisingly, the pointer didn't move. It sat upon the word YES, still as death.
"Commander…Trip," T'Pol said, her voice taking on a sweet coaxing quality Malcolm had never heard from her before. "You must be clear. We will help you, but you must tell us how to proceed. Why do the J'Hardinne need assistance? Why do you?"
Slowly, the planchette began shimmying again as if trying to find the energy to make one more pass across the board. Just when Malcolm had decided the poor thing was too exhausted to have another go, the pointer began moving in earnest, aimlessly at first, then in a more targeted fashion, quickly finding the letters necessary to impart its message.
"N-O-T…" Malcolm murmured, naming the letters aloud as he had before, only to stop when he realized what he was spelling. "Wait… That's not possible. That can't… How is that possible?"
Jon shook his head, eyes locked on the board, seemingly as aghast as his lieutenant. "I-I don't know. I'm not sure I understand…"
Rather than stopping after completing its communication, the planchette picked up its pace, moving with increasing speed across the board, its path erratic.
"What's it spelling?" Phlox asked, his hectic gaze doing its best to follow the piece of plastic. "It's moving too fast for me to make any sense of it."
"I don't know," Malcolm admitted, having a hard time even maintaining contact with the device. His fingers kept slipping off. "Gibberish mostly, I think. I wish we had thought to record this. Perhaps it's some kind of code."
"Trip, you've got to slow down," Jon said, his eyes now closed like T'Pol's, apparently trying to reach out as the Vulcan had. "You're losing us, buddy. We don't know what you're trying to say."
With that, the planchette skated to the far edge of the board, away from any letters or symbols. But rather than rebound as before, the pointer kept going, flying from beneath the foursome's fingertips. Away from the board and all of them, it crashed against the opposite wall.
"What the hell?" Jon said, his eyes snapping open. "Trip?"
Suddenly, the temperature plunged another few degrees, the cold noticeable now on Malcolm's hands and face. He could feel something happening, an increase in pressure building inside the room, the sensation reminding him rather unpleasantly of the cargo bay onboard the Br'Teyn.
"What is that?" Phlox asked, pointing towards the corner of the room.
"Oh my God," Malcolm whispered, the words like a prayer.
A ball of light was forming, the orb changeable and dim.
"It's just like T'Pol described," Jon said, rising now to his knees. "This is what happened before she saw Trip."
Malcolm looked over towards the Vulcan, thinking to gauge her reaction. What did she make of the phenomenon?
Apparently, nothing at all. T'Pol sat unaware, her eyes still closed, her hands balanced atop her lap, fingers touching.
"What do you suppose she's doing?" he asked Phlox, worried by the woman's stillness.
The doctor tore his eyes away from what was happening in the corner of the room to peer across the table at T'Pol. "I'd guess she is doing everything in her power to hold on to her connection with Commander Tucker. Somehow, she has been able to reach him. It would appear she is unwilling to let him go."
"Is that a face?" Jon asked quietly, standing as he spoke. "Do either of you see a face?"
Malcolm turned back towards the corner. The light had grown in intensity, moving now, floating approximately two meters from the ground, all the while changing shape and density. Yet he couldn't make out any particular features.
"I see it," Phlox murmured after a time. "Oh good heavens. Do you think--?"
Jon took a step towards the apparition. "Yes, doctor. I do."
"Captain," Malcolm protested, rising to his feet as well. "Sir, shouldn't you…do you think it's safe?"
Jon looked over his shoulder at Malcolm, a strange small smile tugging at his lips. "Yes, Lieutenant. I believe it is." Turning back to the light, Jon moved closer still.
Following his commanding officer's gaze, Malcolm's jaw dropped open. At last he saw what the doctor and captain had already seen.
A well-known profile, a familiar set of shoulders…
"Good Lord, Trip," he whispered, coming to stand beside Jon. "Is that really you?"
"It would appear so, Lieutenant," Phlox said from just behind them, now standing as well. "Yet, if the last message relayed through the board is to be believed, not Commander Tucker's ghost."
"Not a ghost at all," Jon said, his eyes shining, his smile wider than before. "Trip's 'not dead'. Perhaps none of the Br'Teyn's passengers are. Now we just have to figure out how to get them all back with us, safe and sound."
To be continued in Chapter 7