CHAPTER 9

Target practice was not going well. Malcolm's relatively easy success at mastering audible basketball had given him false confidence. It was one thing to hit a stationary target, but trying to hit a flying sphere that could change course was another story. His frustration mounted as he missed one shot after another.

"What am I doing wrong?" he muttered more to himself than to the other two people in the armory.

Ensign Welsh, standing off to one side, said, "If I might make a suggestion, sir?"

Malcolm reined in his frustration. Welsh and Foster had agreed to help him with this project, which was rapidly turning out to be an exercise in futility. The two men had rigged the sphere to emit a beeping sound and had entered the target's flying parameters into the device which controlled it. It wasn't their fault he couldn't hit the bloody thing.

"Go ahead, Welsh," he said. "Anything would be an improvement."

"Well, sir, it seems to me that your stance is wrong," Welsh said.

Lowering the phase pistol, Malcolm said, "I'm standing like I normally would to shoot."

"That's just it, sir," Welsh said. "You're standing as if you can see the target. You've got your arm lined up with what would be your line of sight. You might want to try adjusting your stance, or at least the position of your head, so that you're better using your hearing to track it."

If he hadn't had the pistol in his hand, Malcolm would have slapped his forehead. "I should have thought of that," he said ruefully.

"Old habits die hard, sir," Welsh said.

"Set it up again," Malcolm said, altering his stance so that his head was turned with his right ear lined up with his right hand holding the pistol.

He heard the target whiz around, its beeping coming clearly to him. He took a deep breath and concentrated on what he was hearing. He let off four shots in quick succession, fighting the instinct to "look" directly at the target.

The first three shots missed, by how much he had no idea, but the fourth resulted in a reverberating "whang" as it struck home.

Malcolm couldn't keep a grin from his face as Welsh and Foster congratulated him.

The route from his cabin to the armory was now as familiar to Malcolm as the way to the mess hall. He was becoming so adept at making his way around the ship that he was able to think about other things, instead of concentrating soley on where he was going, as he returned to his cabin after target practice.

Still flush from his success -- he'd managed to get his percentage of hits up to thirty-three percent -- he nevertheless was struck by something he'd been trying to ignore for some time. Welsh and Foster, indeed all the armory staff, acted as if he were their department head. He still had his rank, but there was no way he could resume his former duties.

Why hadn't the captain appointed a replacement for him? The armory staff was well trained and could run the department without him, at least for a time. But the ship needed to have an acting tactical officer.

Maybe the captain was waiting until he was off the ship so as to spare his feelings. Since they didn't know when that would be, however, it seemed negligent to let the position go unfilled.

If he got the chance, he'd ask the captain about it. Better yet, he'd strongly urge the captain to name a replacement. He would insist that a competent officer take over his former duties on a day-to-day basis. He could even offer a recommendation or two.

He arrived at his cabin and entered. Tossing his cane on the bed, he made his way into the bathroom to get a drink of water. He found the cup on the sink and reached for the faucet. Turning on the tap, he listened as the water ran into the cup, the pitch changing as it filled. When the cup was about half full, as indicated by both sound and weight, he turned off the tap.

He was raising the cup to his lips when the deck beneath his feet lurched. Thrown off balance, he came up hard against the door jamb, the cup flying from his hand. He heard it clatter to the deck as he floundered around, trying to find something to hang on to. One hand smacked against something cold and solid, and he grabbed the edge of the sink, tensing as he waited for the grav plating to go out like it had the day before. But as he clung there, he remained upright, his feet on the deck. The dreaded sensation of floating didn't occur.

There was something wrong, however. Both by sound and feel, he could tell the ship had dropped out of warp. The almost imperceptible hum of the engine and the barely noticeable vibrations through the deck were missing.

He made his way out of the bathroom and over to his desk. His finger was on the comm button before he caught himself. He had no right to contact the bridge. He was no longer a functional member of the senior staff, and he'd only be bothering the bridge crew during their handling of whatever this situation was in order to satisfy his curiosity.

Someone would contact him if they thought it was necessary. He'd just have to do what any other passenger on board a starship would do -- he'd have to wait and hope for the best. He didn't like it, but that's the way things were for him now.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there at his desk when the comm beeped. His hand flew out, unerringly finding the correct button to answer the hail. "Reed here."

"Malcolm," came Hoshi's voice. "I thought you might like to know what happened. We hit another one of those subspace waves."

Malcolm exhaled heavily. He'd figured as much. "Any damage?" he asked.

"As far as we can tell, no. But the captain ordered the engine shut down as a precaution until Trip can check it out."

"Thanks, Hoshi. I appreciate you letting me know what's going on."

"No problem. It's the least I can do after you talked me down in the armory yesterday." He could hear the amusement in her voice, but it was replaced by solicitude in her next words. "You're okay, aren't you?"

He was grateful for her concern but annoyed as well. If he could see, she wouldn't have thought twice about checking on him. But then again, if he could see, he'd be up on the bridge with the rest of the command staff, trying to sort out what was going on.

"I'm fine," he said shortly.

"I've got to go. Talk to you later."

The connection was cut, leaving Malcolm in the dark in more ways than one.

Malcolm was in the mess hall finishing his dinner when Trip came in. The easily recognizable accent of the engineer as he talked with someone near the food cabinets carried to where Malcolm was sitting.

Malcolm took a sip of his tea, his attention focused on Trip across the room. In a few moments, he heard someone walk in his direction.

"You know," Trip said as he sat down, "it's uncanny how you do that."

Malcolm heard a flutter of linen as Trip shook out a napkin before putting it on his lap.

"Do what?" Malcolm asked curiously.

"Look right at me," Trip said. "For a second there, I thought you could see me."

Malcolm sighed. "I wish. Although you aren't the first person I'd pick to look at."

Trip laughed. "Don't blame ya there, buddy."

Malcolm let Trip eat for a while without interruption. He passed the time by listening to the conversations around him. Most of the talk centered on today's run-in with the subspace wave. A couple of maintenance personnel were griping about having to clean up the ship two days in a row. A person he assumed was a med tech was talking about treating the minor injuries that had resulted from the latest shipwide shaking.

Not gleaning any useful information, he asked Trip, "Have you learned anything about this subspace wave?"

"No," Trip replied, his voice garbled as he spoke around whatever he was eating. Something with tomato sauce, from the smell of it. "For something that's not supposed to happen very often, twice in two days seems unusual."

Malcolm took another sip of his tea, his brow knitting as he thought about the two incidents.

"Is the tea that bad?" Trip asked.

Malcolm snorted. Carefully setting down his cup, he put his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. "These outages remind me of something we encountered a long time ago."

"What's that?"

"It seems a lot like when the Xyrillians were feeding off our plasma exhaust to get power for their engine," Malcolm said. "They hid in our plasma wake and we didn't detect them until we ignited the exhaust. We had all kinds of malfunctions, including the grav plating going out, before we knew they were there."

There was no response from Trip. Malcolm knew he was thinking about what else had happened when they'd discovered the Xyrillians. Trip had gone over to their ship to help fix their engine and had come back with a souvenir -- the first male pregnancy in human history.

Malcolm heard the clank of utensils dropped on a plate. "Thanks for killin' my appetite," Trip said disgustedly, followed by the sound of the same plate being pushed aside.

"You have to admit, there are similarities," Malcolm said.

"Yeah, but there are some differences, too," Trip said. "For one thing, there's a small window of time, only a second or two, where the wave registers on the scanners right before it hits."

"It could be some sort of technology we don't know about," Malcolm went on, refusing to be swayed from his opinion. "In fact, it would be a good way to probe the weaknesses of an opponent before launching a full-scale attack."

"You know," Trip said, his voice edged with irritation, "I think you're even more paranoid now that you can't see ."

"Somebody needs to be!"

Trip made shushing noises, then said, "Lower your voice, would ya? People are starin'."

Malcolm took a deep breath. Occasionally he would forget there were other people around. It was easy to do when you couldn't see anything and you were distracted by the pig-headedness of the person sitting across the table from you. In a quieter voice, he said, "At least tell the captain what I said, would you? He should be aware of all the possibilities."

"All right, Malcolm," Trip said. "We've got a senior staff briefing tomorrow morning. I'll mention it to him then."

Malcolm breathed a sigh of relief. Something about these subspace waves felt wrong, and it wasn't just that he'd been weightless during one of them. He wished he could read the reports from the various departments to see if he could find a common denominator to the malfunctions. It was one thing to have a feeling that something was wrong, but if he could find evidence of some kind--

"I've got to get going," Trip said, interrupting his musings. "The captain scheduled the briefing for pretty early tomorrow morning, and I've got to get the report from Engineering finished up by then."

Malcolm nodded and picked up his cup of tea for another sip as Trip left the table. No longer having access to senior staff meetings, the best he could do was ask Trip to pass on his hunch to the captain. Hopefully, the captain would heed it.