Disclaimer: Star Trek: Enterprise and its characters are the property of Paramount.
Human Voices Wake Us, And We Drown
Prologue
"This is Lieutenant Malcolm Reed. All hands: Security Code One-One-One is now in effect. All off-duty personnel report to quarters. All on-duty personnel report to stations. This is not a drill."
Captain Jonathan Archer was covered in perspiration. Shirtless, his breath coming in labored gasps, he felt as if he had just sprinted a three and a half minute mile. As the announcement repeated, he stumbled across the room and slapped the comm unit.
"Archer to Bridge. Report."
Hoshi's voice was tight with tension. "Sir, Security was called to C-Deck at oh-two hundred twenty hours. I believe there has been one casualty." She swallowed. "That's all I know right now."
"Have T'Pol meet me in Sickbay. Reed, too, when he's able." Archer sat on the bed, trying to clear his mind. His heartbeat was still galloping along until it felt as if his chest would burst.
He reached for a clean uniform and noticed that his hands were shaking.
The captain strode into Sickbay grim-faced but under control. T'Pol had arrived only moments before. She and the doctor were just now stepping out from behind the sterile curtain. Her face was impassive. She nodded to him.
Phlox held a scanner in his hands. His smock was smeared with red, human blood. The corners of his mouth were turned down.
Before either the doctor or the sub-commander could speak, Archer asked, "What happened?"
Phlox flattened his lips, a sign that he was clearly upset. T'Pol started the explanation. "Approximately thirty-seven minutes ago, Crewman Vaughn reported to Lieutenant Reed that she was being attacked. Security responded to C-Deck and found the crewman unconscious and badly beaten. Lt. Reed secured the area immediately, but has yet found no indication as to the identity of the assailant."
"Or his or her whereabouts?" Archer asked.
"Correct. Which is why he invoked Code One-Eleven."
"And has everyone reported as ordered?"
"All crew are accounted for," T'Pol affirmed, "and there have been no intruder alerts."
Archer turned his attention to Phlox. "How is Crewman Vaughn?" The lines etched around his mouth seemed to grow deeper with every second.
"She is, as you might expect, comatose. She has sustained severe head trauma, caused by a solid, possibly metal, blunt object. She has four broken ribs and a shattered right elbow." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "From my initial – albeit quick – examination, it appears that there are some defensive wounds on her forearms, but, in my opinion, her attacker continued to use force after she had lost consciousness."
"Will she live?" Archer's gaze strayed to the curtained area.
"I do not know, " Phlox admitted. "We have stabilized her, but her injuries are very serious."
Archer moved toward the curtain. Phlox placed a restraining hand on the captain's arm. Archer glanced down in surprise, then said, "I want to see her."
"I would not recommend that," the doctor said.
Archer felt himself begin to simmer. "Why not," he said tightly.
T'Pol said, "Captain, given the extent of Crewman Vaughn's injuries, I believe it would be . . . distressing for you to observe."
"I'm a big boy, T'Pol," Archer retorted, "I think I can handle it." He nailed her with a gaze that dared her to make him make that an order. After a moment, T'Pol dropped her eyes and stepped aside. Archer took a deep breath and parted the sterile curtain.
It took everything in him not to react to the sight of his crewmember beaten so savagely as to be almost unrecognizable. The left side of her head was literally caved in; the right side was blotched and discolored. Phlox had resorted to inserting a breathing tube, a mechanism he rarely ever used. He had laid a sterile bandage over the more damaged half of her face, leaving one eye visible.
Archer slammed the lid down on any emotion and locked into starship captain mode. He could not be weak. He could not indulge in grief or horror. He straightened his spine and stepped toward the bed.
The monitors attached gingerly to the shattered body beeped steadily, but all sound faded into the background as he realized that Crewman Vaughn was not, as Phlox had indicated, in a coma, but was watching him with one glittering eye. He dragged the remnants of his composure around himself before his dismay could reach his face. Her eye moved as she tracked his approach.
He reached out and put his hand lightly on her arm, which rested, bare, on top of the sheet. She just stared at him with that unblinking eye.
T'Pol leaned in next to Archer. "Crewman Vaughn, did you see your attacker? Can you tell us anything at all?"
Vaughn closed her eye briefly, then slowly reached for the captain's sleeve. Pinching a tiny bit of fabric between her thumb and forefinger, she gazed at him, and then drifted off into unconsciousness.
"I did this?" Archer staggered back. "She's saying I did this?"
"Well, keep in mind, Captain," Phlox protested, "that she has suffered a serious head trauma. We are likely to get more reliable evidence from Lieutenant Reed's investigation. Perhaps we should check with him."
T'Pol added, "She could merely have been communicating that a member of the crew committed this act, or that her attacker wore blue, or was male. I do not believe she was accusing you, Captain."
For a moment, Archer didn't move. He looked down at the broken crewmember once more, feeling the crushing weight of responsibility. He would have to notify her parents. I regret to inform you that your daughter Amy didn't die in the line of duty. She was murdered by her captain. He brushed the tips of his fingers across her hair, then turned to go. "Spin it any way you'd like, T'Pol. I'll be in my Ready Room."
Reed met him halfway to the turbo lift, face grim. "Sir, I've analyzed a number of samples collected at the scene and from Vaughn's clothing. Mostly there was nothing in the corridor to identify anyone else, but her uniform did yield a few fibers and strands of hair that were foreign to her." T'Pol came up behind him. Archer waited.
"Sir," Reed continued, looking profoundly uncomfortable, "the hair is a match for yours. I must ask you – it's a formality only – where were you at oh-two hundred hours?"
Archer offered a cynical smile. "Of course I was in my quarters, alone, asleep. Pretty convincing alibi, don't you think?"
"Captain," T'Pol said delicately, her hands behind her back, "Can you think of any reason a strand of your hair would end up on Crewman Vaughn's clothing?"
"Was I, for example, sleeping with her?" Archer's voice grew cold. "Unfortunately, no. I don't even remember the last time I was in the same room with her. You can ask her when she wakes up."
"Crewman Vaughn died of her injuries, just one minute ago," T'Pol said.
"Sir," said Reed, "will you voluntarily relieve yourself of duty until this investigation is over?"
"Sure," Archer replied flatly. "I'll confine myself to quarters if that's satisfactory to you."
"Very well, sir," Reed agreed.
"I am afraid that will not do," interrupted T'Pol. "I do not believe the ship is safe with you able to roam at will. You say you will stay in your quarters, but you lie. You are a fraud." Archer just stared at his First Officer. She bore her usual neutral expression, yet her voice shook with rage. "You are a danger to the universe," she continued, pulling a phase pistol from behind her back. "You must be stopped before more innocent people die."
As she aimed, Archer looked speechlessly at Reed. His security officer had a thoughtful look on his face as he rubbed his bottom lip with his forefinger and nodded in agreement.
T'Pol fired.
And Archer sat straight up in his bunk, clutching his chest and gasping. Panicked, still trapped in the grip of the nightmare, he slid off the bed and onto the floor, choking and coughing. His chest tightened and burned.
As the dream receded like mist dissipating at sunrise, Archer sat shivering on the floor. He pulled the sheet off the bed and wrapped it around his shoulders like a cape.
Porthos whimpered as he trotted over to check on his master. The beagle licked Archer's sweaty face a few times, then insinuated himself onto his lap. Archer just held the dog closely, as if Porthos were the only substantial thing in the world.
The bedside chronometer claimed it was oh-six hundred twenty. He was due on the Bridge in a little over an hour, his customary time to report for duty. He buried his face in Porthos' fur and tried to convince himself that he was not going crazy.
