CHAPTER 7

Malcolm wasn't in a good frame of mind as he made his way to his cabin after a meditation session with T'Pol. Phlox had insisted the Vulcan first officer was the best one to teach him meditation techniques as part of his therapy.

Since Phlox could find no physical reason for his loss of eyesight, the conclusion was that there was a psychological problem. The doctor hadn't come right out and told him he was crazy. What he had said was there was a documented condition where a person has inner conflicts, which in turn act as a catalyst for blindness. It was all in his mind, and Phlox was going to treat it as such. So now Malcolm had to attend sessions to learn how to meditate in the hope of uncovering the underlying cause of his blindness.

If anything, Phlox's comments only reinforced his feeling that losing his ability to see was predestined. Enterprise didn't need a tactical officer who was bonkers. Perhaps it was best that he'd been blinded before he could do any irreversible damage to the ship or any of its crew.

In addition, when Malcolm had teased Trip about his Vulcan neuro-pressure sessions when they were in the Expanse, he hadn't foreseen that he'd someday be in a similar situation. The last thing he wanted was to be the butt of the same sly jokes to which Trip had been subjected.

Phlox had made it clear, however, that the meditation sessions fell under the captain's directive of coping with his circumstances. Malcolm resigned himself to meeting with T'Pol until further notice.

Unless she had other duties that required her attention, Malcolm spent an hour with T'Pol every morning. The first step was to learn how to make his mind go blank to be able to subsequently focus exclusively on one thing. It seemed simple, but Malcolm had yet to master it. Every time he'd try to empty his mind, some errant thought would intrude, and he'd have to start all over.

Today's session had been no different. T'Pol normally used a candle to help her focus when she meditated. Since he couldn't see, she had told him to visualize a candle flame. His effort had been totally derailed this morning when he'd thought it was just as well there wasn't an open flame near him. He'd probably knock the candle over and set T'Pol's quarters on fire. His concentration was shot after that, and one thought followed another in quick succession. T'Pol, in a rare fit of Vulcan pique, had dismissed him after he'd asked if she had a fire extinguisher in her quarters.

Frustrating as his meditation sessions were, they did give him something to do. He was rapidly running through the ship's stock of recreational audio materials. In any case, he couldn't listen to recordings all day.

He'd generally spend an hour or so practicing audible basketball, just to keep himself busy. He'd also taken to visiting the gym. Being blind was no excuse to slack off on keeping physically fit. He could still use a stationary bike, but now he set a timer instead of relying on a readout that told him how many kilometers he'd pedaled. And he took a perverse satisfaction in beating the hell out of the punching bag.

Having successfully navigated the route from T'Pol's cabin to his, he tucked his cane under his arm when he reached his door. As he pushed the buttons to key in his code on the access panel, he debated whether he ought to change into sweats and head to the gym.

There shouldn't be many people in the gym at this time of day. One thing that bothered him about being blind was that, sometimes, people would enter the gym and not identify themselves to him. Perhaps it was because they felt they shouldn't bother him, or maybe they were not well acquainted with him and didn't want to approach him. Knowing someone was there but not knowing who it was, however, made him extremely uncomfortable.

A light rat-tat-tat-tat of footsteps on the deck plating from down the corridor made him turn with a smile in that direction. "Hoshi," he said. "What brings you to B deck?"

"Mail call," she responded. He heard the slap of data disks against her palm. "I have some letters for T'Pol. Speaking of whom, aren't you supposed to be meditating with her right now?"

Malcolm grimaced and turned back to his door. "She let me go early," he said. "I'm not a very good student today."

"Trouble concentrating?" she asked sympathetically as his door slid open.

He stepped in to his cabin and turned back toward her. "Yes. I'm so bad at it that T'Pol lost her patience with me today and threw me out."

"What!"

"Not really," he said with a smirk. "But she did cut short our session today. I'm just not getting the hang of it."

"Malcolm..."

He couldn't tell if Hoshi was reproaching him or not. The corridor wasn't the best place to carry on a conversation, so he gestured with his free hand. "Would you like to come in?"

"If you don't mind," she said.

"It's not like I have much else to do." He stepped back to allow her to enter and, after he felt the air stir as she passed, he closed the door.

"Make yourself at home," he said, taking the three steps to his bed where he put his cane across the foot of it. He put one hand up to touch the shelf above his bunk to make sure he was where he thought he was, then sat down on the bed. He assumed Hoshi would sit at his desk, and a slight scraping noise as she pulled the chair out confirmed that.

After a few moments of silence, he said, "Please quit staring at me."

He heard her sharp intake of breath before she said, "You're becoming quite perceptive."

"Perception has nothing to do with it. If I had just followed a blind person into his quarters, I'd be watching to see if he ran into anything."

"Malcolm," she said in the same tone she'd used in the corridor.

He sighed, expecting a lecture, knowing he deserved one for being rude. It didn't matter that technically he was still her superior officer. This had nothing to do with their professional relationship. She was his friend, and as such, she was entitled to tell him he was being a right bloody bastard. So what she said next took him by surprise.

"I'm worry about you," she said.

He tilted his head to the side. "That's very considerate of you, but there's no need."

She made a little harrumph noise.

"Really!" he insisted, leaning back to rest his shoulders against the bulkhead behind his bunk. "I think I'm managing quite well. Well, except for the meditation."

"I know you're adapting to the physical challenges," Hoshi said. "I wouldn't have expected any less from you."

"Thank you, I think," Malcolm said wryly.

"I've heard about your midnight wanderings."

Frowning, Malcolm said, "I asked Chef not to squeal on me."

"You have to admit, it's not every day somebody locks themself in a refrigerated storage cooler," Hoshi said. "What were you doing in there?"

"Freezing," he shot back with a short laugh. "Until Chef found me, that is." He let his head thunk back against the bulkhead. "I've been familiarizing myself with the ship. I decided to do it during the night shift when fewer people are around."

"Because you don't want anyone helping you?"

"That, and feeling sorry for me," he admitted. "It's hard enough for me to accept someone else's help. It's even worse to know I'm the object of their pity."

He heard Hoshi shift in the chair but she didn't say anything. No doubt his unusual frankness had made her uneasy. He wished he could see her face to better gauge her reaction. Once again he realized the disadvantage in not being able to see another person's expression.

"It's not that bad, Hoshi," he said softly. "At the very least, learning to find my way around the ship is giving me something to do. I need to keep busy. I need to be able to do things without depending on other people all the time."

"I understand," Hoshi said. "I hope you haven't been upset by my attempts to help you."

Malcolm sat up straight. "No, not at all. In fact, how you've treated me illustrates exactly what I'm talking about. You've helped me to learn how to do things, like putting the tags on my clothes, instead of trying to do things for me. You don't treat me like I'm helpless. ... You must have been a great teacher."

"You're welcome," she said softly, "but you've done most of the work. I admire how you've been able to adapt to not being able to see. I don't know if I could do it. Of anything that could happen, I think blindness terrifies me the most."

Hoshi's confession about being scared of not being able to see struck a chord with him. Malcolm remembered when he'd been skewered to the hull by a Romulan mine, and he'd told the captain about his fear of drowning. He knew what it felt like to be overcome by an unreasonable terror, and how difficult it was to tell someone about it.

Hoshi changed the subject. "I was glad to hear you made a visit to the armory."

"Have you got somebody following me around?" he asked, making sure to smile to take the sting out of his words.

"No, but I do have informants," she replied smugly. "Every good communications officer has a network of them."

Putting his hands behind his head and leaning back against the bulkhead again, he asked, "And what did your informants tell you about my visit to the armory?"

"Nothing. Just that you stopped by to check on things."

He abruptly pushed away from the bulkhead and reached for his cane. "That gives me an idea. Care to accompany me to the armory? That is, if you're not on bridge duty right now."

"I was just delivering the mail," she replied. He heard her get to her feet. "Let me drop these letters off at T'Pol's cabin and I'll be right back. Okay?"

"I'll be here," he said.

Hoshi let herself out. Malcolm got to his feet after he heard the door close. He realized with a start that he'd done most of the talking, yet Hoshi's visit had left him feeling better about himself. She had a knack for making people open up. Some of the things he'd said he hadn't told anyone else.

Her easy acceptance of his ambivalent feelings about being blind made him want to try even harder to find out how much he was capable of doing. Hence his sudden inspiration to visit the armory.

"The phase pistols, sir?"

Malcolm adopted his best stiff upper lip. "Yes, Foster. The phase pistols," he said tartly. "Just because I'm blind doesn't mean I don't remember how to clean them."

"Yes, sir," Foster said doubtfully, but Malcolm heard him move off in the direction of the weapons' locker.

Off to his left, he heard a muffled snicker. Hoshi had yet to say anything since they'd entered the armory, but he was sure she was watching with great interest. He just hoped he didn't screw this up. Not only would he embarrass himself in front of some of his armory staff, but word would most likely get back to the captain through Hoshi.

Foster returned. A metallic clunk signaled several phase pistols being placed on the work table in front of him.

"Thanks, Foster," he said. "Is my tool box here?"

"Yes, sir. It's in your office. Would--"

Hoshi must have given some sign to Foster, for the man stopped abruptly in mid-sentence. Malcolm was unable to keep from smiling.

"That's all right, Foster," he said. "I'll get it."

Using his cane, Malcolm made his way over to his office. As he reached the door, he belatedly remembered that he'd had the tool box with him at the time of the explosion. Someone, probably Trip, had brought it back to the armory. He normally kept it to the right just inside his office door. Probing that area with his cane, he felt it hit something. He carefully bent over, felt for the handle and found it, and picked up the tool box. He returned to the work table as nonchalantly as he could.

"Very good," Hoshi murmured for his ears only as he put the tool box on the table and opened it. "Foster's jaw dropped about a meter."

Malcolm smirked. "To paraphrase Mister Tucker, 'He ain't seen nothin' yet,'" he said quietly.

He quickly found the tool he needed in the well-ordered box. One thing about losing your sight -- if you had been a person who liked to keep things organized and in their place to start with, it was much easier to find what you needed. His natural inclination for order was serving him well.

He held his other hand out toward Hoshi and felt the reassuring weight of a phase pistol slapped into it.

"We're not operating on a patient here," he chided her. "I can only imagine what would have happened to my palm if that had been an old-fashioned scapel."

"Guess where I'm going to put the next pistol," she said in a falsely sweet tone. "You won't have to worry about not being able to see, because the sun doesn't shine there."

He laughed as he removed the pistol's casing and carefully laid it aside. Of all the people on board, Hoshi and Trip treated him almost no differently than before. He appreciated that. Even when Trip did make some stupid comment, like not being able to make baskets even when he could see, the comfortable familiarity of the teasing far outweighed any offense he might take. It made him feel as if there was some semblance of normalcy in his life, and that he might just be able to learn to live with being blind. Not that he liked being unable to see, but you had to work with what you had.

There also was a certain satisfaction in being able to finally do something productive, no matter how menial the task. He efficiently cleaned the internal mechanisms of the pistol. It didn't take long, as there weren't many working parts. He did ask Hoshi to inspect the pieces after he cleaned them, however, just to make sure he didn't miss anything.

"Looks good," she said.

He reassembled the pistol and set it aside. As she handed him the next pistol, she said, "I can't believe you can do this without seeing what you're doing."

Removing the outer casing of the second gun, he said matter-of-factly, "Every good security officer should be able to take apart a phase pistol and put back together in the dark."

"Is that a requirement for the job?" she asked.

"No," he replied, "but you never know what conditions may--"

A violent shudder ran through the ship. Malcolm was enveloped by the unwelcome sensation of floating, his body slowly rising into the air.

Next to him, Hoshi gasped loudly. "Something's wrong with the grav plating!" she said.