CHAPTER 10

Malcolm had always dreamed in color. After losing his sight, he still had dreams, and they were still in color. The morning after encountering the subspace wave for the second time, he awoke from a vivid dream of a brilliant blue sky over a lush green landscape. Jarred awake by the alarm clock, it was a bitter disappointment to open his eyes to the unrelieved blackness that was now his environment.

He sat on the edge of his bunk and scrubbed a hand over his face. He wondered if, over time, he would forget what colors looked like.

Such thoughts would only depress him, and he sternly told himself to stop it. Today he was going to take another crack at target shooting. If he could improve his hit ratio, that ought to cheer him up. He showered, shaved, got dressed, and made his way to the mess hall.

The place seemed empty. Only a few voices were murmuring at the edge of his hearing as he went over to the food cabinets. Footsteps came toward him from behind, and a strong, clear voice said, "Hey, Malcolm."

"Good morning, Travis," he replied as the helmsman came to stand beside him. Gesturing toward the cabinet, he asked, "Would you hand me a plate with pancakes?"

"Sure."

A moment later, a plate was placed in Malcolm's waiting hands. "Thanks, Travis. Where are you sitting?"

"I'm finished with breakfast," he said. "I just stopped on my way out to see if you needed any help."

"Oh." Malcolm tilted his head to the side. There was much less noise than there should have been for the usually busy breakfast hour. "Where is everyone?" he asked.

"We're on tactical alert," said Travis. "We've been picking up intermittent traces of recent warp trails in the area for about four hours, but we haven't come across a ship. The captain wants everyone to stay sharp, so he issued the alert."

Malcolm felt the same prickling at the back of his neck as he had the night before when he'd been talking to Trip about the subspace waves.

"Why wasn't--" Malcolm stopped before he could blurt out the rest of what he had been thinking. He had been about to ask why he hadn't been informed, but the answer was obvious. He was no longer on active duty.

"I've got to go, or I'll be late for the staff briefing," Travis said.

"Of course," Malcolm said. "I'll talk to you later, then?"

There was no reply. Apparently Travis had already left.

Sighing, Malcolm turned around and, using his cane, found the closest table.

Malcolm arrived at the armory to find there was no one available to assist him with target practice. The personnel were on alert and didn't have time for him. They needed to be able to respond to commands from the bridge at a moment's notice.

"Sorry, sir," Ensign Welsh told him. "I'd like to help you, but I can't right now."

"That's all right. I'll go putter around in the office for a while."

Malcolm could sense the man's relief. Welsh had enough to take care of during a tactical alert without a blind man underfoot.

Malcolm moved off, swinging the cane in front of him. He didn't need the cane to get around in the armory. He'd been spending enough time here lately that it had become as familiar as his cabin. But he used the cane on the chance that a piece of equipment may have been moved into one of his memorized paths across the main floor. No sense in tripping over something like that and hurting himself or damaging the equipment. Worse yet, he could end up embarrassing himself in front of any crewmen who might be watching.

He closed the door behind him. He'd only been to his office once since the accident, and that had been to retrieve his tool kit before cleaning the phase pistols. Going over to the desk, he reached out with his free hand and explored the surface. It was bare, which was how he'd left it so many weeks ago. It struck him as strange that the staff hadn't piled data padds and other materials there. He would have thought someone would be using the office, if only as a place to fill out reports. Maybe it had something to do with a replacement for him not having been named yet.

He felt his way around the desk and seated himself in the chair. With nothing to do, he amused himself by opening the drawers and checking out their contents by touch. Everything was as he'd left it, even the half full bottle of whiskey he kept for those occasions when Trip would stop by to complain or commiserate about something.

Checking out the desk took only a few minutes. That done, he was faced with a morning of absolute boredom. He could feel the melancholy mood he'd woken up with returning. Maybe he should go to the gym and work out. Or he could go to the hydroponics bay. He found the scents of the various plants, along with the earthy smell of dirt and compost, to be a calming experience.

But he remained seated, drumming his fingers on the desktop. The tactical alert made him uneasy. There was no place he'd rather be than the armory, with the exception of the bridge, under such circumstances. He uttered a curse at his inability to take an active role in what was happening.

His inactivity eventually led him to think about what would happen when he did get back to Earth. He'd have to find something to do. He couldn't sit around the rest of his life. But whatever he did wind up doing, it had to be interesting and challenging, or else why bother? It was either that or spend his days living on a Starfleet disability pension doing nothing, and that was not something that appealed to him.

He couldn't begin to imagine his father's reaction. Stuart Reed was a stubborn man. He hadn't been pleased when his son had tossed aside a proud family tradition of naval service. Malcolm wondered what his father would say about his blindness. No doubt it would be something along the lines of getting what he deserved.

He didn't want to think about what his father would say when he found out his blindness was the result of some sort of psychosomatic condition. He'd been avoiding thinking about it himself. Who in their right mind would want to be blind? He hadn't consciously wished for this to happen -- it just had. It wasn't like he could wish his sight back. He'd already tried that, and it didn't work.

And then there was his poor mum. She'd fuss over him, not letting him do anything for himself.

Malcolm had just decided that he'd have to find a place of his own to live when, for the third time in as many days,the ship shuddered. He instinctively held on to the desk, which was bolted to the deck like other fixtures that weren't moved often, and waited to see if the grav plating would fail.

The gravity remained steady. But the ship bucked again, and this time Malcolm knew it wasn't the result of a subspace wave. That last lurch could only have been caused by an energy weapon striking Enterprise.

With his cane in one hand, he cautiously got to his feet. He made his way to the office door, intending to ask someone what was going on. As soon as he opened the door, however, he heard something he could identify in his sleep -- the high-pitched hum of a phase cannon being fired. Enterprise was fighting back. With the port phase cannon out of commission, that meant either the starboard or the aft cannon had been fired.

Malcolm stood transfixed in the doorway, not wanting to get in the way but desperately needing to know what was happening. He waited, straining his ears to hear what he couldn't see. Several minutes passed but the cannon wasn't fired again.

When he couldn't stand it any longer, he called out, "Welsh?"

"Sir?"

It sounded like Welsh was up at the elevated console. "What's going on?" Malcolm yelled in that direction.

"An unidentified ship fired at us, sir," Welsh called back. "It's gone now."

After only a moment's hesitation, Malcolm made his way to the ladder leading up to the console. He tucked the cane under his arm and climbed the stairs. He shouldn't be doing this, getting in the way, but he had to know what was happening.

"If you could step to the side, sir," Welsh said deferentially yet firmly when Malcolm arrived on the platform.

Malcolm moved over, making sure he wasn't blocking Welsh's access to the console. He stood with the small of his back pressed against the railing that ran around the platform.

"Any damage?" he asked.

"Not that I can tell," Welsh said. "And it was a clean miss on our part."

Malcolm nodded and asked, "The ship appeared after we were hit by the subspace wave?"

"I don't know, sir. It happened so quickly," Welsh told him. "I can review the bridge scanner logs from here, if you like."

Malcolm could hear the uncertainty in the other man's voice. Welsh had plenty to do without being pestered for information. He ought to leave.

Still, the sudden attack by another ship, coupled with the subspace wave, reinforced Malcolm's feeling that Enterprise was being stalked, its weaknesses being probed.

"Were there any system outages this time?" he asked.

"What?" Welsh asked distractedly.

"Were there any system outages this time?" Malcolm asked again.

"None in the armory or weapons systems," Welsh said. "Let me check elsewhere on the ship."

Malcolm heard the clicking of keys. A few moments later, Welsh said, "Power was out on decks B and C. Power relays throughout the ship went down. Internal communications were down. Everything appears to be working now."

As if confirming Welsh's last statement, the comm beeped, and Malcolm heard T'Pol asking for a status report.

As Welsh responded to the request, Malcolm stood lost in thought. Whoever this mysterious attacker was, they apparently could affect another ship's systems while remaining hidden. That was assuming the attacker was responsible for the subspace wave in the first place. As T'Pol had hypothesized, the wave might simply be a rare event, but one that someone had figured out how to use to their advantage. Even so, that implied the attacker could better track the subspace wave than they could.

This most recent instance, with the attacker coming out of hiding and firing upon Enterprise, made him wonder if it had been a test of their defenses, and if something worse was yet to come.

"Excuse me, sir," Welsh said, brushing by him and breaking his reverie.

"I'll get out of your way, Welsh," Malcolm said. He felt with the toe of his boot for the first rung on the ladder. He climbed down -- a more difficult process than climbing up -- and stood indecisively at the bottom of the ladder for a moment.

He hadn't finished cleaning all the phase pistols the other day. He'd been interrupted by the first subspace wave and had never gotten back to them. Cleaning them now would be a good excuse to remain in the armory. He called up to Welsh to inform him what he was going to do, and set to work.

Two hours and eight phase pistols later, Malcolm was wondering if he should switch to cleaning the phase rifles to break the tedium. He'd been hanging around the armory in case something else would happen, but he was beginning to doubt it would. He'd mulled over the three subspace wave incidents as he worked and had come to the conclusion there probably wouldn't be any further disturbances today. There had been one subspace incursion each day for three days in a row now. Maybe it took an entire day to be able to produce one. Or maybe these "random phenomena" took place on what was turning out to be a regular schedule.

Whatever the case, he was due for a break. It was almost lunchtime. He cleared the work table and put the phase pistols back in the weapons locker. He had just closed the locker door, his hand on the latch to lock it, when he hesitated. He'd been relieved from active duty, but that didn't mean he didn't have a responsibility toward the ship. He might not be able to hit much with a phase pistol, but he'd feel better having one on his person.

He opened the locker and took out a pistol. Since he wasn't in uniform, he had no loop from which to hang it. Luckily, the pants he'd put on that morning had large pockets, and he slid the pistol into the pocket on his right side.

As he walked toward the main armory door, the pistol bumping against his leg, he told himself he wasn't doing anything wrong. It wasn't like he was trying to sneak off without anyone knowing he was taking a pistol. As if Malcolm's thoughts had summoned him, Welsh was suddenly standing beside him, grasping him by the arm

"Sir," Welsh said. "You can't do that."

"Do what?" Malcolm asked innocently.

"You can't leave the armory with a phase pistol. I'm sorry, sir."

Welsh did sound contrite, but that didn't stop Malcolm from going on the offensive. "Why not?" he asked, shrugging Welsh's hand from his arm.

"Well, um," Welsh floundered. "You just can't."

"I'm fully rated on phase pistols," Malcolm said icily. "I just tore down and cleaned eight of them, and put them all back together. I know how to handle one of these."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but you're blind."

"Tell me something I don't know, Ensign," Malcolm said, raising one eyebrow. He hoped he was looking directly at Welsh, if only for effect.

"But--"

"You were with me yesterday when I was practicing. I hit one out of every three targets, which is bloody incredible for someone who can't see," Malcolm said vehemently. Taking a deep breath, he said more calmly, "I promise I won't shoot any of the crew with it."

Malcolm could hear the other man shift on his feet.

"Look, Welsh," he said. "We both know all security personnel are to be armed during tactical alerts. I'm still security. If something does happen, I can give the pistol to someone who's with me but not armed. It might mean the difference in a tight spot."

"All right, sir," Welsh said reluctantly.

"That's a good man," Malcolm said.

With a curt nod of his head, Malcolm turned and made his way out of the armory. It wasn't until the hatch closed behind him that he grinned. He'd gotten out of the armory with a phase pistol, and had come up with a perfectly logical reason for doing so.

To get to the mess hall, he took the turbolift to E deck. He was stepping out of the 'lift when a voice from down the corridor called to him.

"Malcolm! Wait up!"

Hoshi's quick footsteps approached. As she came to stand next to him, she asked, "On your way to lunch?"

"Yes. You?"

"The same," she replied, "but I'm glad I ran into you. Here. I've got a communicator for you."

As she placed the device in his hand, he asked, "What's this for?"

Hoshi took his elbow and together they began walking down the corridor toward the mess hall. She was one of the few people he didn't mind helping guide him in that manner, perhaps because he knew she was doing it as a courtesy, not because she thought he really needed the help.

"Every time those subspace waves hit, the internal comm system goes down," she said. "As far as I can tell, it doesn't affect the communicators."

"Is this just for me, or is everyone getting one?" he asked curiously.

"The captain decided that, the next time we hit one of those subspace waves, key personnel should be issued communicators," she said. "You're not going to be in the right place to get one if the time comes, and I thought..." She patted his arm with her free hand. "This way you'll know what's going on."

Malcolm smiled. "Thanks, Hoshi. I appreciate it."

"You're welcome," she said.

They walked in companionable silence until Hoshi accidentally bumped against him. She stopped, her grip on his elbow halting him as well. He heard her snicker.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Um. This may be a rather tasteless comment, considering you can't see, but I've got to say it," she said.

"What?" he asked, his curiosity aroused.

"Is that a pistol in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"