Thank You's: RoaringMice, JadziaKathryn, Jaws (Yep, definite action; and Fritz and David will even be blowing some stuff up later!), Tata (Hate is a very strong word…), Queen of Fairyland, and Exploded Pen.
Note: And now we've reached the climactic part of our story. This has been a long time coming—in fact, the last section of this part was the first thing I ever wrote for this; so, really, everything has been leading up to this one moment. Though, truly, we aren't finished yet; there are still several plot lines to be resolved (Trip and Madeline, anyone?). But it's gonna be a downhill ride from here on in.
Warning: I drop the F-bomb several times in this part. I thought it appropriate, okay?
Let's Play a Game: In this section, find the bastardized quote from Legends of the Fall.

Six: Bethlehem

What can I tell you, my brother, my killer,
What can I possibly say?
I guess that I miss you; I guess I forgive you,
I'm glad that you stood in my way.

—Leonard Cohen, "Famous Blue Raincoat"

"They've found the ship!" David repeats, frantic, his voice high. "C'mon."

I stare at him. "What ship?"

"I swear to God, sir," says David.

I blink. Satellites link up in my mind and old video footage plays back against my eyes. That ship. Avenger. Oh, fuck. I rush out, post-haste, bumping his shoulders and yelling out, "Don't dawdle, Commander!"

"About time," he grumbles and runs after me, to the bridge.

We burst through the door, one after another, into a hectic situation. Fritz is rushing around to all the different stations, and Hoshi and Noah are grappling with the communications unit. David goes to the tactical station and I join Fritz where he's currently standing with my head of science, Commander Gillian Winters. They both turn to me.

"We're sure?" I ask.

"Reasonably," says Winters, hear head bent over her station.

"Reasonably?" I repeat.

Fritz fields the question: "Well, there's some scientific mumbo-jumbo involved that even I don't understand, but the jist of it is that the alien ship is emitting some sort of electromagnetic field and it's sent all of our systems out of whack."

"Even the view screen?" I question, looking up to the front of the ship.

"Lieutenant Blanche is working on that," says Fritz, jerking his head at the cluster of engineers. Blanche is heading them, looking distinctly frustrated. She lashes out suddenly with her foot, smacking whatever she's trying to fix. I raise my eyebrows and she favors me with a sweet little smile as she kicks it again. I nod; that was how we did it on Enterprise.

"Commander," I begin. Fritz continues staring at me, David looks over from the tactical station, and Winters glances up. I shake my hand in the latter Commander's direction. "Girl one." David goes back to work and Fritz goes to see if Hoshi and Noah could use some help. I speak with Winters: "How bad is it messed up? I mean, can we get any conformation on how many people are on the ship?"

She shakes her head: "Sensors indicate that there are two ships; one has a detail of thirty people and the other has twenty-five. I can't be sure which is which, as the life sign indicators aren't showing me what type of biosigns they are. Either way…" She trails off.

Either way, I continue in my head what she was reluctant to put to words, a significant portion of Avenger's crew is dead. There had been one hundred and twenty-six people on board Avenger.

I can only hope Malcolm is among the twenty-five or thirty survivors.

Winters and I stare at each other for a brief moment when my attention gets diverted by a triumphant crow from the front of the bridge. I glance over to see that Blanche and her team have gotten the view screen up and running. The crow, however, is abruptly cut off when they see what is up there. I slowly walk up, Fritz and David coming up behind me. We stare.

There she is, Avenger, in all her once-beautiful glory. Now, she is a shell. She is charred black from weapon's fire, chipped and dented and bent. The other ship beside her is of a make we haven't seen, but we don't care. They have opened fire on our people; we will avenge Avenger.

I turn back to Winters, and David and Fritz who are behind me, asking, "How can we get on?"

"Transporter," says Fritz, not missing a beat.

"But you won't be able to get off that way," interjects Winters, frowning. "I won't be able to lock onto your biosigns."

"We can have shuttle pods ready," speaks up Travis Mayweather from the helm. We all turn to look at him. He coughs nervously: "While you're in there, getting the crew, me and two other pilots can take the shuttle pods in."

"It could work," says David, looking at Fritz. "And if anything happens, whoever's at tactical can lay down some cover fire."

"We can take them?" asks Hoshi, hesitant. "I mean, look at what they did to…"

"They were taken by surprise," theorizes Fritz, "if their systems were anymore on the…um"—he coughs uncomfortably, before saying quickly—"anymore on the fritz than ours are."

"No pun intended," I say. Fritz nods, his ears bright red. I look between my tactical officers. "D'yew two think that the aliens don't realize we're here yet, what with the systems all funky?"

"I wouldn't bet the farm on it just yet," says David, "but, yeah, possibly."

"Good," I say. "Commanders—boy ones—suit up. I want yew guys to get as many of yer people yew think we need and meet me at the teleporter."

"Aye," they say together. They stay where they are though, waiting.

"You're going, sir?" asks Winters. I nod.

"I'm invested in this," I say simply. I look at Hoshi next. "You've got command with Winters when I'm gone, and…" I trail off. I want three level headed people up here making decisions in my wake, and at least one of them needs to be prepared to open fire at any time. I turn to Fritz and David. "Who d'ya trust from the armory to be up here?"

Fritz and David do their weird Almost-Twin Telepathic Communication, thinking it over. David asks: "Schoolnik?"

"The Canadian?" says Fritz, brow furrowed. David levels a stare of disbelief against his friend, his eyebrows inching up to his hairline, and, even in the shadow of disaster, he manages to keep a sarcastic and witty head. Not to mention also keeping the ability to just screw around with Fritz.

"How many other Schoolnik's do we know?" It's remarkable, really, how much of an old married couple these two act like. Then again, before Malcolm and me fell out, we used to be like that.

"Okay, good point," Fritz says after a moment. David rolls his eyes at me.

"And I thought I was the absent-minded one."

No, I think, you're both crazy sons of bitches.

"Schoolnik?" I say aloud.

"Yeah," says David. "Good guy, funny, little bit of an itchy trigger finger when he gets going, but level most of the time."

"Perfect. Get 'im up here."

-

Have I ever mentioned how much alike Fritz and David are? Probably, but it bears a second coming. They've got this crazy ass silent communication thing going on and, yes, while they seem like sweet little boys who just enjoy building miniature cities and their own robotics out of Lego's, they also happen to have temperaments akin to stun grenades and their Lego creations tend to have weapons systems that can be triggered just by walking passed them.

"Okay," David is saying, in full Henry V pre-battle mode; "We're going to be splitting up into groups of three or four. Yes, it will be more dangerous, but smaller groups move and conceal themselves more easily. Commander Schlosser and I will be with the Captain; Carter, you take Ross and Potter; Chandler, you've got La Salle, Weaver, and Hargitay; and Greene, take Lawrence, Edelstein, and Romano. Got it? Good. Grab your boom-sticks, kids," orders David as everyone nods, "and get on the pad."

Fritz, a sniper rifle already swung onto his back and two phase pistols strapped to his thighs (and I'm reasonably certain his got some other, less regulation items on his person too), picks up a pulse rifle. He moves onto the pad, standing beside both David and myself. He grins that horrible grim grin of his, the one the splits his face like someone has taken a knife a cut along his jaw bone.

I hold my pistol tightly as the rest of the armory officers (and several MACOs) climb onto the pad. Softly, I say, "We're goin' huntin'."

-

We appear in the middle of a hallway, alone amongst ourselves. We split apart into our groups.

"Yew find anyone," I say, "radio in. Take that person to the rendezvous then; give 'em a weapon. Go back searchin'."

I am apparently understood, as the teams all fade away without a backwards glance to the areas they were given to search. Now, Fritz, David, and me are the only ones left in the middle of the darkened corridor. David reaches out a hand and presses it to the wall; it comes back covered in black stuff.

"Firefight," he notes unnecessarily, running his soot covered hand down the side of his pants now. It disappears into the black.

David lapses into silence as Fritz starts to move ahead. He gestures with his hands for us to follow him. I move in line behind Fritz, and David falls back to watch our six.

See, Malcolm? I want to say. I may have had trouble before but, now, now I've learned all yer military, fightin' mumbo-jumbo. This ol' dog can learn new tricks.

Somewhere, in the recesses of my mind, I can feel Malcolm laughing at me. I let my subconscious give him the finger.

We move in silence for a long while, everybody stalking down the long passage, not running upon anything at all except for the two opposing fire blackened wall. I recall another time as we walk, another mission like this but not, where Malcolm was there and we were whole.

"It's like were Yeats' beast," he had said, moving by my side. I had looked at him, confused, and he had explained, "The poem. And what rough beast, its hour come round at last/ Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?"

And here I was again, with Fritz and David in darkened tunnels, slouching, stumbling, limping on towards our Bethlehem.

Before me, Fritz stops suddenly. I run into his back, lost in my mind; I try to look over his shoulder to see what it is that gave him pause. David comes up behind me, and I know he's doing that thing he does because we're taller than him and he just can't look over our shoulder and so he tips the top half of his body to the side to look, like a child does around his parent's legs. I think we both see it at the same time, the thing in the halo of Fritz's flashlight.

Two bodies in the yellow light, weapons discarded, are fallen on the floor with their limbs entangled in the parody of an embrace, cradling each other on the rocking ship. There's a ring of blood about them.

"Damn," whispers David. I look back at him, his head and shoulders awkwardly hanging over near my elbow. His face is twisted in a sad grimace and all his lines of age have become very prominent in this moment.

Something sounds before us, like the ripping of fabric. I turn back. Fritz is bent over the bodies, pulling off their name tags and rank identification. He stands and returns, handing the torn bits of fabric and metal to me. There's blood on the tips of his fingers, I notice, taking the scraps away.

"Lieutenant Jim Zelazny and Ensign Ingrid Jackson," I read aloud. Fritz bows his head briefly and David makes a cross in the air.

After our moment of silence, David contacts one of the groups: "Ajax, this is Bramage. Come in, Ajax."

"Ajax here," comes the voice of Lieutenant Devon Chandler over the crackle of static. There's an odd noise in the background, like someone trying to break something down.

"We've got two bodies," David relates over the line. Chandler sighs on the other end.

"Sorry to here that, sir," he says. He pauses and then says, "We're currently attempting to gain entry to the bridge."

"The door's shut?" I ask. Apparently, I asked loud enough that Chandler could hear me over the radio because he answers, "Yes, sir. Very shut."

"Continue on," orders David. "Bramage out." He looks between Fritz and me. "If the bridge is closed out, and we've found bodies, I think the sensible thing is to go look at the sickbay."

I nod, agreeing. "I always knew yew were the brains of the outfit," I tell him, gesturing to both he and Fritz. Fritz snorts, taking point again in a silent gesture that we should start moving. David and I fall in behind him once again, with me covering our six this time.

"Yeah." Fritz is muttering darkly from up front, more to himself than anything. "That's why his call sign is an abbreviation for 'brain damage'."

David steps on the back of Fritz's heel.

I snigger into the cavity of my upraised elbow.

­-

We reach sickbay without further incident, the little spat between Fritz and David notwithstanding. Though, truthfully, that was only a few childish things, like stopping suddenly and poking one another. I was forced to wonder, at one point, whether or not Malcolm had ever come into the Armory to find Fritz and David standing in front of each other, their fingers held out so close that they were almost touching, saying, "He's touching me!"

The doors here are closed. Fritz takes me by the arm and pulls me off to one side, while David takes the side. Our side is the side with the door panel—which is burnt out from the fire fight, it looks like—and so I get to work on it. After a few minutes, the doors slide open.

From their opposite sides, Fritz and David stare intently at each other, their weapons raised, and, as one, spin into the sickbay. Inside, I know that they are looking around for potential enemies. Suddenly, their hands shoot out, in sync with one another, and gesture for me to enter. The area, I assume, is secure.

It's times like these that I miss Malcolm most.

I enter, my weapon held up on high. I take point and the two security officers fall in behind me as we move around, searching. Why aren't there any injured in here?

"Why don't yew two go out and search the rest o' the area around here? I'll be fine in here." I suggest, looking behind me. They nod and, like shadows in the night, fade out of the room. They make no sound as they leave, only the faint echoing of breath and I'm pretty sure that's just me that I hear. It's some sort of weird security officer thing, I think. Malcolm used to do it too. When I first noticed it, I was convinced Malcolm didn't breathe at all. That had caused some scary ass nightmares, I'll tell you.

I watch as they fade away, and I slowly turn. I glance around sickbay—not the sickbay I knew all those years ago, but a sickbay still—before moving into the darker recesses of the area. I can see evidence of even more fire fight on the walls and there are two aliens lying on the ground. A man—in a white doctor's coat—is lying prone over a biobed, two more bodies of officers near his feet. I dip my head down and look at the floor, eyes closed; so that's why there aren't any injured. I wait a moment before opening them, still staring at the floor.

Fuck.

Oh, fuck, fuck, double fuck.

There is blood. Fucking everywhere. A sick, dark, red line, reaching, squirming along the white floors of sickbay. It trails up, jaggedly, around. Twisting, writhing. It breaks at points and there are scuff marks in it, like someone tried to kick out with their feet or dragged their feet as they crawled. Bile rises in my throat as I notice fingerprints etched in the blood. It's like Hansel and Gretel and their bread crumbs but so much, much worse.

My pistol hanging limply at my side, I follow.

I come to the end of the trail—after having followed its winding death behind a counter—and, in my throat, my breath catches. I make broken sobbing noises, staring.

Malcolm lies at the end of the death trail, arms held up, grasping desperately to a phase pistol. He shakes—quakes, really—and stares out with wild, feverish eyes. Blood is smeared down the lines of his face and he makes odd choking noises as he breathes—rapidly, frightened. He's like a wounded, cornered rabbit.

I fight down my horror. I have to be calm, sane—I have to be strong for him.

And how delightfully ironic is that? Wasn't it always him being the strong one? Wasn't he the one who told me everything was going to be all right, the one who said, "It's but a wound, it will heal", who told me to remember to breathe? Wasn't he the rock that I broke myself against?

"Mal?" I say softly, using his nickname, trying desperately to get his attention. But I fail. He gazes out, wild, untamed.

"They came," he whispers fitfully. "They came and I-I couldn't stop them. So fast, so fast." He sounds so terribly broken, so un-sane. He continues. "Gone. Gone. All of them, gone. Alone. Left me." Tears drop down from the blind pearls that were his eyes, cascading down his dirty, bloody flesh. Lines of salt.

The pistol is still pointed at me, shaking with his terror, his madness.

"Put it down," I whisper, so soft, so quiet. I reach out a hand, beseechingly. Don't go, I want to tell him. Don't go, not when I have just found you.

"Killed them all. My crew," he says, so brokenly that I want to weep from him and never stop. Just cry until there is nothing left of me but a shell of torn human flesh, a pile of dry ash and bone. Maybe we'll find some peace then, together in the sky. That, I know, is where we were always meant to be. Not upon this lonely mortal coil, this land, this ocean, this sea of despair. But the sky, the clouds, the space—

The air was meant for us.

"Please," I say, voice breaking slightly, so close to begging—but, hell, who am I kidding? I am begging. "Put the gun down, Malcolm. Just put it down."

And, for the first time, I think that Malcolm really sees me. His wild eyes lock on me and I know I am a red, red buoy in this field of snow. I know I am a light that brings unto him clarity.

"Trip?"

The word cracks like a whip through the air—our air, our peace—and his pistol shakes fiercely.

"Yeah, buddy," I say. I kneel down and he keeps staring at me.

"Hallu-hallucination?" he asks.

"Nope," I reply softly. "It's really me."

"But you've been gone for so long."

"I'm here now," I tell him. His face crumbles, collapses. He starts to cry heavily, bitterly, brokenly. Everything about him is broken, I realize as the pistol clatters to the floor. He opens his arms to me and I fall into him, wrapping my arms around him and him me. He sobs against me, crying for his lost crew and for himself and, maybe, crying a little bit for me and him together. I press him to me tightly.

I'm here now.