Thank You's: RoaringMice (The importance of the circus folk is more of a subtle, read-between-the-lines thing. I envisioned David's family as not being able to handle a damaged son because they were all so athletic and special, and David, being born autistic, really didn't measure up to what they were. And what kind of future story are we talking about, here?), liz (Thank you! I'm very fond of Fritz and David, and Ethan, and Trip and Madeline together. And Trip/T'Pol always bugged me, too.), Tata, JadziaKathryn, volley, and Jaws.
Note the First: Sorry about the long wait for the last chapter; it was a bitch to write. But this one came a little easier, mainly because I rediscovered my love of Coldplay through their new album, X&Y. And I had a lot of fun writing one of the sections; maybe a little too much fun, actually. This one is also kind of short, but when you read it, you'll understand why. The next part, you'll be glad to know, actually as a fairly sizable chunk of it written (about a fourth). I'm going to the Ann Arbor Art Show on the 19th so the next update won't be until after I'm back, but hopefully I'll find inspiration in the art there and find time to write in my hotel room.
Note the Second: Something that amused me: In the middle of writing this section, I went to the grocery store with my mother. As I was walking past the frozen foods section, I saw a man who looked freakishly like Connor Trinneer; seriously, I had to do an honest-to-God double take as I walked by him. The kicker? He had a little brown haired boy at his side.
Five: Wake Up
Oh brother I can't, I can't get through
I've been trying hard to reach you 'cause I don't know what to do
Oh brother I can't believe it's true
I'm so scared about the future and I wanna talk to you
—Coldplay, "Talk"
Sleep eludes me.
And I'm tryin' very hard, dammit: I just can't seem to fall asleep. Maybe it's because I can imagine what's waiting for me in the Land of Nod: Him. He. His face. My old friend. My brother. Malcolm. I know he's waiting for me, against the back of my eyelids. A part of me says, yes, go to sleep and see him, talk to him. Another part is screaming at me: Don't you dare! Don't you dare! Don't close your eyes, Trip Tucker, don't you dare.
Because that's the part of me that remembers not all of my memories are happy, that it may not even be a memory—it could be something my mind creates. Like the Dream.
Yes, the Dream has been magnified to epic proportions and capital letters, thank you very much. It's just—more than ever, lately, I keep dreaming of him next to me, lying on the icy pond; him dying, me screaming. I came to terms with parts of it, years ago, but my mind has seen fit to keep changing little things about it. Sometimes, we're on the pond; sometimes, we're on the beach; sometimes, we're on Enterprise. Sometimes; I can move, go to him, hold him.
Malcolm always dies.
-
"You look like hell, Captain," remarks David Webster over coffee in the Mess.
"Thanks." I grab a cup for myself and sit next to him: I don't like the Captain's Mess. It's too empty. "Are we makin' any progress?"
"Some," he says. "A little more than what we were at when you last asked, oh, twenty minutes ago on the Bridge."
I open my mouth to ask how exactly he knows this, as he has been asleep in his quarters until his shift starts at oh-six-hundred—which was ten minutes ago—but he cuts me off, lazily putting sugar into his coffee, "Fritz tells me things."
"Traitor," I mutter. David smiles lightly and pours a healthy—though I imagine Phlox would say differently—amount of sugar into my cup for me. I look at him.
"You looked like you could use it," he explains. We sit in silence and he downs his cup. He gets up and looks at me: "I've got to get back to work." He pauses. "You should get some rest, sir, before Fritz, as your SIC, has to clobber you in the head in order to get you to sleep."
"It's not like I'm not tryin'," I growl to myself, in a low voice, as he walks away. David, though, has excellent hearing.
"First sign of madness, sir," he calls over his shoulder; "talking to yourself."
"At least I listen," I say, not bothering to say it softly. David chuckles.
-
Captain's Log
It's our fourth day out in space. We still haven't found any trace of Avenger or the ship that attacked them, but we aren't about to lose hope. The crew has faith that we will find them, and so do I. As for the crew, I'm finding more and more that I did the right thing in choosing these people. Fritz Schlosser was a great choice for my number two, as was he (along with David Webster) a good choice for the Armory positions. Travis Mayweather is, once again, proving to be an excellent pilot and navigator. Hoshi Sato-Lyman is still an extremely capable linguist, as is her husband, Noah.
On a more personal note, I'm having a little trouble getting back into the swing of a command position; but I think being back out here is helping. Space, really, doesn't change, like people, and I find some comfort in that.
Yet, however much comfort in it I am getting, I am having difficulties falling asleep—or even getting to sleep.
PAUSE
But I endeavor to—
PAUSE
Computer, switch to personal log.
SWITCHING TO PERSONAL LOG
I'm worried about what I will find on that ship, on Avenger. I fear that I won't be able to make amends with Malcolm, like I wanted to. I fell like something has passed me by, a chance to make it right. Now, I've only got a chance to make it real, to face the conflict we left between us. I wonder if we'll fight over it. That was what we always did best. Sigh God. What if I can't do it? What if I can't face him?
PAUSE
I miss him.
PAUSE
Computer, go back to captain's log.
RETURNING TO CAPTAIN'S LOG
I endeavor to do my best and find Avenger. That's all I can do.
-
Leaning over the rails, I stare down at the Warp Engine. Being back in Engineering, next to the thrum of the engine, next to all the workers—people I've worked with before, some I haven't—I feel like I've come home. I want to jump down there and grab a wrench and just start to work. While that would help me, make me feel more useful and maybe I could just forget a little, it would also make me look a little weird to the engineers I've brought along.
"Hey Captain," says a voice to my left. I jump a little, startled. Mike Rostov—now a Commander—smiles at me. He's my Chief here, and I'm glad I've got him here. I brought in as much of the people I knew back then, people who knew Malcolm, as I could.
"Rostov," I say. "Gotten down the sneakin', eh?"
"Helps me come up on the slackers," he tells me.
"Yew learn well grasshopper." We bow to each other, jokingly: I used to do that to him when we were on Enterprise. And, again, I'm glad I've brought in all these people I know—it definitely feels like I've come home to all these people.
Now, only if Malcolm was here and I could get some goddamn sleep…
"Hey," Rostov says suddenly after a moment of silence. "Have you met my second?"
I shake my head negatively. I was only in charge of grabbing up my senior staff; I let them chose their underlings. Though I did have final say.
"She's great," Rostov's saying. "Educated at Cambridge and the Sorbonne and all those places, you know? I mean, she could kill me with her brain. And wait 'til you see her hair."
As he calls to his second, I've got to admit I'm a little scared. What's with her hair?
We wait a moment and suddenly a petit, pale faced imp of a lieutenant bounds up the stairs. Her hair, I see, cropped against her chin, is coal black. Until, of course, it melds halfway into Crayola crayon blue. Her eyes are very bright and very dark. She smiles at me.
"Bonjour, Captaine."
I abruptly recall what Rostov addressed her as and I make the connection.
"Yew're related to Admiral Blanche," I blurt. Open mouth, insert foot: It's a process I've quite gotten used to. The Lieutenant Blanche rolls her eyes.
"Oui," she says. "He is my uncle."
"Yew don't look like him," I say. In my head, I chant, I feel like an ass. I feel like an ass. This is all because I haven't been getting enough sleep, you know. I develop, I've discovered, Tourettes when I haven't slept in a while. The filter just dies, understand, and I can't do a damn thing about it. Malcolm used to make fun of me for it.
We're all staring at each other, an awkward (for me at least) silence over us. Rostov is positively giggling under his breath while Blanche stares at me bemusedly. For my part, I'm looking at both of them in a kind of wild confusion and embarrassment.
Suddenly, someone calls out for Rostov and Blanche's help. They bid me a farewell and run off to work.
"Oh, thank God," I breathe when they're gone, leaning against the rail once more. Engines I can do. First impressions? Not so much. I stay there for a moment, watching the comings and goings of my engineers and listening once again to the engine. I turn away after a moment and leave. I need to try and get some rest.
-
Fritz Schlosser in kill mode is a very frightening thing. He puts his hands on his hips, frowns severely, and does this glare thing that he's whipped into perfection. And each word he uses had been perfectly sharpened into a lethal weapon.
"I believe I quite told you that it would be in your best interest to get some rest, Captain, lest you pass out on the bridge."
See that body on the floor? That's me. Dead.
It's day six of our search (no new updates; still nothing, though Travis says we've got a weak Warp signature that could belong to Avenger) and Fritz has cornered me in the Mess. I have still not been able to sleep and, just yesterday evening, he told me to go to my quarters and try and get some sleep and do not come out until I had no circles under my eyes. I protested. He threatened mutiny. I went to my quarters.
The man served under Malcolm for nigh on five years, people, it's not like he ain't prepared to do it.
I went to my quarters, giving him control of the ship. I was reasonably certain he wouldn't crash it into anything; that's David's prerogative. But in my quarters, I couldn't get any sleep. So, this morning, I snuck out (feeling like a teenager out after curfew) and went to get some espresso.
To my dismay, I have been found out. Someone must have tattled on me. Probably Hoshi. Mother hen. I shall reap my revenge someday—I've almost got Noah on my side.
"What ever am I to do with you, sir, if you fail to get any rest? Perhaps I'll have to enlist Phlox." Fritz Schlosser: He has two settings—Sweet Little Boy with Lego's and Death Ray. "You know it isn't good for you to skip over sleep. What would happen to our mission? And what would Malcolm think?"
Okay, now that was a low blow, Mr. Schlosser.
"He shan't be pleased, methinks."
"I think yew've made yer point," I growl, clutching my drink. He raises one sculpted eyebrow. Does he get those done? I wonder. What a girl.
"Then give me the espresso." He holds out his hand. I pull it closer. Fritz sighs, a weird noise considering the state of his vocal cords. "Do not make me forcibly remove it from your person. Because I will tackle you to the ground and show no mercy, Captain of this vessel or no."
Eyes downcast, I push it over to him. He would do it, after all, and I like my arms right where they are, thank yew. Despite all this, I still think I made a good choice for Second-in-Command. While I'm thinking, Fritz is picking up the cup. He favors me with a bright smile.
"Good choice, sir," he says, hiding it behind his back. With his free hand, he waves in the general direction of my quarters. "And, now, to bed with you."
I grumble at him as I stand. Mainly derogatory things about his parentage, casting aspirations on the legitimacy of his birth. He laughs gleefully and I am reminded that this man hangs out with David Webster on a regular basis. And that they regularly amuse themselves by trying to out do one another when creating some definitely questionable and, without a doubt, most creative stringing together of vulgar words and/or phrases. I remember walking into one of their insult trading sessions. I heard one of the insults and got the hell out of there. Freaks, the lot of them.
"Twisted bastard," I grumble.
"Not nearly on par, but a good start," Fritz shoots back.
I flip him the bird over my shoulder and shuffle out.
As I go, I hear him giggle to himself: "How gauche."
-
In my quarters, I collapse on my bed and remember.
-
"Hallo the guard," I called, slipping beneath the bench. Malcolm looked over at me, amused.
"That was clever of you," he noted.
"I like ta give the impression," I replied. We shifted enough so that he can keep working and that I could then get a look at what he's doing. I was still at a little of a loss as to what it is, so I asked, "What'cha doin'?"
"Upgrading the weapons system," he said simply.
"Malcolm, yew have to imagine my utter surprise," I told him dryly.
He glanced at me from out of the corner of his eyes. He didn't look particularly amused anymore. "Aren't you afraid, Mr. Tucker, that one day I am just going to kick your ass like it's never been kicked before?"
"I'm reasonably confident that I could out run yew." Malcolm raised an eyebrow, I amended, sheepishly, "At least for a couple a decks or so, and then yew'd catch me and kick my ass."
"Damn straight," he said. "Hand me that wrench."
I gave it to him and we sat there working in silence for a long time. After a moment, Malcolm said softly, "I won't kick your ass unless you really piss me off."
"So if I, say, broke your sister's heart," I said, jokingly, "how bad of an ass kickin' would I get?"
"I would beat your head in," he said without a beat.
I smiled: "And yer heart?"
"I doubt you have the stamina," he said airily. We grinned and kept working.
-
I lean my head against the wall, sighing.
I think I had the stamina after all.
-
Madeline,
How are you? And Ethan? I hope you're both doing well. It's our seventh day out here, and we've recently picked up a fairly strong Warp trail. Two of them, actually. We hope one of them belongs to Avenger, but we're all still pretty reluctant to put anything down on paper as certain. I just thought you might like to know that we've, well, got hope.
The ship's doing fine; so is the crew. Though Fritz Schlosser has turned out to be a real slave driver. Gives me orders and everything. He's says it's in my best interest to listen to him and do as he says but—
Don't listen to him! This is the aforementioned slave driver, by the way. Captain Tucker just being terribly whiny. He hasn't been sleeping very well, you know. I'm just trying to help. Well, I've got to go before I get court-martialed (Lord knows he's threatened to do so enough times, but, honestly, it's in his best interest and I doubt he would really follow through). Tell Ethan I said 'Hello'. Hope you're doing well. Cheers, F. Schlosser.
—Hey, it's Trip. How'd you like that? Little sneaky German was reading over my shoulder and he just steals the pen! Didn't even ask. How rude. Anyway.
On a completely different note, I have found out that the niece of Admiral Blanche is serving in Engineering. How's that for a coincidence. She's a nice girl, kind of odd. I think Schlosser may have a bit of a crush on her. Maybe it's the blue hair. (Seriously! The girl's got blue hair!)
Well, I've got to go. I am running a starship, after all.
Sincerely,
Trip Tucker
P.S.
I will find him.
-
In the Mess, David and Fritz talk tactics and Lego's and what drinks they'll buy Malcolm and his crew when we find them; Fritz steals glances at the blue and black haired Blanche at the next table. I walk in and sit next to them. David greets me warmly, Fritz distracted.
"Our little Fritz has started to notice girls," David tells me, whispering.
"How sweet," I say. But I'm happy, and I know David's happy for him too. Something good should come from this voyage, because normally nothing does. I know that, they know that.
Malcolm knew—knows, because he can't be dead, he must be alive, because I would know, just like I knew in the dream—this.
-
The bell to my quarters rings again and again and again…
"Go the hell away!" I yell, muffled by my pillow and sleep. I just fell asleep, no dreams, and some jackass comes to wake me up. I'll kill this bastard, I think.
The bell rings again and David, sounding singularly upset, screams through the door: "Sir! You're needed on the bridge!"
I burrow my face in the pillow, throwing a rude hand gesture at the shut door. Screw David—I need my sleep and I'm going to get it, dammit! I sigh contentedly. I knew staying awake for a long time would eventually drive the dreams away.
Short and long rings in Morse code, musically patterns of them, and more rings in Morse code ring through my quarters. I growl, rolling over. David's just being an ass now, trying to get me awake. I sit up and go to the door, bending to the little bastard's will. I open the door.
"They've found the ship."